


Prince of Shadows

by Inkstained_Dreamer



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angband, Betrayal, Fall of Gondolin, Gen, Gondolin, I Made Myself Cry, Maeglin is sad (a lot), Medical Experimentation, Not Eöl-Sympathetic, Psychological Torture, Sympathetic Maeglin, borderline between teen and general audiences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 21,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26163487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkstained_Dreamer/pseuds/Inkstained_Dreamer
Summary: After finally getting his uncle's permission to leave the city of Gondolin, a relieved Maeglin sets out on a mining expedition into the mountains. When disaster strikes and Maeglin falls into the cruel hands of Morgoth Bauglir and his ruthless but beguiling lieutenant, Sauron, Maeglin is confronted with a seemingly impossible choice that forces him to plumb the darkest depths of his own mind, and ultimately answer the question: what is he willing to do to survive?
Relationships: Idril Celebrindal & Maeglin | Lómion, Maeglin I Lómion & Sauron I Mairon, Maeglin | Lómion & Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor, Maeglin | Lómion & Turgon of Gondolin
Comments: 81
Kudos: 58





	1. Morning

**Author's Note:**

> I took one major liberty with the canonical material for this story--I chose to have Turgon know about Maeglin's departure. It made more sense in the context of what I wanted this story to be, so for the purposes of this tale, just assume that Maeglin's persuasive skills have finally paid off and Turgon, albeit reluctantly, is allowing him to leave. :)
> 
> Also--some of the chapters have fairly graphic violence. When it is necessary, I will put a warning in the topmost chapter notes and summarize the events of the chapter in the ending notes for those of you who do not wish to read the bloodier scenes (there aren't many of them, though).

Maeglin woke to grey light streaming in his window. The curtains were half-open, allowing the glow of coming dawn to filter dimly in. It was early enough yet that everything still seemed shadowy and unsure of itself, wrapped in silence dense as a blanket.

Maeglin rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up with a soft groan. He ran his fingers through his tangled hair. A gleam of light from the window fell across his hands when he lowered them. They looked very pale, seeming almost to glow against the darkness of his blankets. He turned them over, looking at the blue veins and the neat crescents of his nails. His mother’s hands, slender but strong. He had dreamed of her again the night before, the way the blood had looked, red against her white cloak, and the little cry she had given as she fell back against him. He shivered, drawing his knees up to his chest. The darkness seemed suffocating now. He gulped in a breath, then another, trying to slow his racing heart. 

_ I am safe here. I am safe here. I am safe here.  _ He repeated the words to himself like a charm, until he could breathe again. His hands shook, so he balled them into fists, digging his nails into his palms. 

He kicked off the tangled blankets, swinging his bare feet on to the floor. The air was chilly on his skin. He walked to the window, pushing back the drapes fully. It was overcast, the tops of the mountains lost in misty cloudbanks. Not a good day for travel, but it would have to do. He rested his forehead against the cool glass of the windowpane, fogging it with his breath until he could no longer see the glowering clouds. 

Maeglin drew back and wiped away the dampness with one hand. It wouldn’t do to brood. He turned away from the window, catching his reflection in the long mirror. He regarded himself pensively.

Pale skin, blue veins showing starkly through like the rivers on the maps he had consulted in the last weeks. 

Hair, dark and straight, hanging down past his shoulders and in his eyes.

Still not tall. Frame still thin and wiry. 

Eyes, huge black pools in a small face, longlashed like a deer’s. 

His mother had said that he was beautiful. His father had said nothing. 

He looked away.

He dressed quickly, tunic and surcoat and sash. He brushed his hair, jerking a little through the knots, then tied it back. He would want it out of his eyes once he started riding. Maeglin pulled on his boots last. They were black leather, supple and perfectly fitted; a gift from his uncle. He treasured them. They felt like freedom. 

He splashed water across his face, stared again at the figure in the mirror. He straightened his shoulders, planted his feet firmly apart, giving the mirror his best princely stare. 

“I am Maeglin, son of Aredhel, nephew of King Turgon of Gondolin,” he spoke aloud. His voice was quiet. He tried again. 

“I am a knight of the White City, a warrior of the House of the Mole.” A little louder this time. He drew himself up as tall as he could, back straight and hands by his sides.

“I am a smith and a scholar. I am a prince. I decide who I am!” He was speaking loudly now, forcing the words out. 

“I am the child of Aredhel the Huntress, White Lady of the Noldor! I control my fate!” His voice cracked, trailing off into nothing. “I command my destiny,” he whispered. 

He looked back at his reflection. His shoulders slumped. He was just Maeglin, for all his bold words. Maeglin, shy and small and quiet most of the time. Glorfindel called him  _ titsë _ , kitten, for his silent steps and his big eyes. He said that Maeglin saw more than all the rest of them. Maeglin rather liked Glorfindel, for all his boisterousness and teasing. He was a brave soldier, and kind too. All of Gondolin loved him. And he had held Maeglin on that terrible day when Aredhel had slipped away into darkness, had let Maeglin soak his shoulder with tears. He had rocked him back and forth, murmuring softly into his hair. Maeglin remembered how his voice had been rough with swallowed sobs. He had known and cared for Aredhel, had gone with her when she left Gondolin, and he blamed himself for her death. 

Maeglin blinked and came back to himself. He could feel his chest tightening, as it always did when he thought of his mother. He closed his eyes and breathed, focusing on the dancing spots behind his eyelids.

_ I am safe here. I am safe here. I am all right.  _

He opened his eyes, smoothed his surcoat, and walked to the door. He rested his fingers on the silver handle for a moment. It was carved with a moon and a star, symbols of Turgon and the House of the King. Maeglin ran his hand over them once more, sighed, and opened the door, stepping out into the light of the empty corridor. His boots made no sound on the marble floor. 

Maeglin shut the door behind him with a soft click, straightened his sash, and set out for his uncle’s chambers. 

  
  



	2. The King

There was no one else about this early in the morning, save the occasional guard. They nodded cordially to Maeglin as he passed, but did not speak. Maeglin was grateful for the silence; it calmed him, let him think clearly. There were no prying eyes, no whispers behind hands as he passed. He was glad. The whispers were never kind. 

He came at length to the door he had been looking for. Two guards stood outside it, their chests emblazoned with a moon, star, and heart--Turgon’s crest. At a word from Maeglin, they stood aside, and he pushed open the door. 

His uncle’s rooms were light and airy, despite the grey sky. Windows stretched from the polished floor to the ceiling, revealing a panoramic view of the city below and the surrounding mountains. Soft rugs lay on the floor, and carved tables were piled with scrolls. The lamps were lit, bathing everything in a soft yellow glow. Maeglin could smell lavender and nutmeg. He let out a soft sigh. His mother had loved those scents, she had brought sprigs of lavender to him when he couldn’t sleep, she had tickled his face with them, and--

“Maeglin? Is that you?” His uncle’s voice drifted through an open doorway to his left, warm and welcoming.

“Yes, Uncle,” he called back. 

Maeglin could almost hear Turgon smiling. 

“Come in, child.”

Maeglin obliged, and stepped through the arched doorway. His uncle was seated at a desk, scrolls spread out in front of him. Maeglin could hear the  _ scritch scritch _ of his quill on the paper. He looked up when Maeglin came in, a smile on his face. Maeglin bowed.

“Milord.” It was necessary to honor the king, even if he had ink smudged on his nose and was your uncle. 

Turgon rose. “Good morning, Maeglin. Forgive me for not greeting you properly. Pengolodh will have my head if I don’t finish these papers.”

Maeglin managed a smile. “Wouldn’t want to have him as your enemy. I hear he throws books when provoked.”

Turgon chuckled and capped his inkwell. “A fearsome foe, to be sure. But come, will you breakfast with me?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Maeglin replied. It was truthful enough. He was growing to like his uncle, despite how different he was from Aredhel. Sometimes, Maeglin didn’t believe that they were siblings. 

Turgon put a gentle hand on Maeglin’s shoulder and led him through a curtained entryway. There was a table, with two chairs pulled up to it. 

“So, Maeglin,” said Turgon, sitting down at the table. “You leave for the halls of the Naugrim today?”

Maeglin seated himself. “Yes.” 

Turgon picked up an apple and began delicately to section it. “I suppose I can’t prevail upon you not to go? It still does not sit well with me, nephew.”

Maeglin sighed and nibbled at a slice of quince. “I will be perfectly safe, Uncle. And it is important to maintain relations with the Naugrim. They can teach us much of metalworking.”

“We have forges here in Gondolin.”

“I know, Uncle. I know. But how are we to expand our knowledge if not by learning from others and finding new resources?”

Turgon rubbed his forehead. “The spies of Morgoth are about, Maeglin. It is better to stay within the city walls.”

Maeglin knitted his fingers in his lap. “I will be careful. Please, Uncle.” He lifted his eyes to Turgon’s. “Let me go. I won’t tarry.”

Turgon sighed. “You are like your mother, Maeglin, always wanting to explore. I give you leave to go, this one time.”

Maeglin bowed his head. “Thank you, Uncle. I will not be gone long.”

Turgon’s eyes turned sorrowful. “I could not bear to see you hurt, Lómion. Be wise. Please.”

Maeglin nodded once and rose. “I will.” 

Turgon pushed back his chair and walked beside Maeglin to the door. He smiled down at him again.

“Goodbye, Maeglin. Go with my blessing and my love.” He bent and embraced Maeglin, enveloping him in silk and the scent of lavender.

Maeglin bowed again. “I will return to you swiftly. Don’t worry for me, Uncle,” He added after a moment. His voice was soft. 

Turgon nodded gravely. “I will miss you, my child. Go well.” He lightly kissed Maeglin’s forehead and turned away, back to his scrolls. Maeglin watched him go, his robes rustling, and felt an unexpected twinge of love for his uncle. He had been kind to Maeglin, had welcomed him in Gondolin despite what his courtiers murmured behind closed doors. 

_ He killed your father _ , whispered another, colder voice in Maeglin’s mind.

_ And I have not wept for it _ , Maeglin thought fiercely back.  _ I have not, and I do not, and I will not.  _

With sudden violence, he yanked open the door and stepped out into the corridor, nodding curtly to the guards. He stood for a moment, indecisive, and then strode soundlessly off down the hallway. He would bid farewell to his cousin, though he knew that she wouldn’t miss him. 

  
  



	3. Farewells

He found Idril sitting on the edge of a fountain, dangling her feet into the clear water and looking thoughtful. When she didn’t notice Maeglin for a few moments, he gave a quiet little cough and moved forwards.

“Good morning, Idril.”

Idril looked over at him, a smile on her face. The smile slipped a little when she saw who it was that spoke to her, but she was kind, and had been taught to be polite, and managed to mask her consternation admirably. Maeglin still noticed with a small twinge of disappointment. 

“Hello, cousin.” Her tone was light, breezy. 

Maeglin offered a small smile. “Erm, I leave today. For the city of the Naugrim.”

Idril nodded. “I’m surprised my father is letting you go.”

“Me too,” Maeglin replied truthfully. He sat carefully down on the edge of the fountain, keeping several feet between him and Idril.

“What are you doing, out there in the mountains?” Idril asked after a moment of painful silence.

“Looking for new metals. Learning smithing techniques to improve our forges.” 

“Ah. I see. And how long will you be gone?” 

“Just a few months, if all goes as planned,” Maeglin answered, deciding to ignore how hopeful her tone had sounded.

“Well, best of luck on your travels, Maeglin,” Idril said cheerfully. “Be safe, and all that.”

“Thank you,” Maeglin said. He knew a dismissal when he heard one, and stood. “I will miss you, cousin,” he added quietly, looking down at his feet on the paving stones.

Idril smiled a little. “And I you.”

Maeglin turned and began to walk away, but to his surprise, Idril called after him.

“Maeglin! Come back for a minute.”

Maeglin looked over his shoulder. She looked sincere and. . .apologetic? He walked back until he stood beside her. She sighed.

“Maeglin, I’m sorry. I wasn’t very nice there. I really do hope everything goes well. And stay safe, truly. You  _ will _ be careful, won’t you?”

“Of course, Idril. Thank you,” Maeglin answered quietly. 

Idril stood up and touched his shoulder. “All right, then. I shouldn’t keep you. Goodbye, Lómion.”

Maeglin gave her a little bow and a small smile. “Goodbye, cousin. Be well.”

She grinned at him and walked away, her skirts rustling. Maeglin watched her go, and waited until she was out of sight to walk back to the buildings. Once through the doorway, he curled up in the nearest window embrasure and leaned his head against the cool glass.

Idril confused him. Or, more accurately, how he felt about his cousin confused him. He knew that people whispered that he was in love with her, and he had considered that. He had seen people in love; Turgon crying before a portrait of his wife, Glorfindel walking hand in hand with Ecthelion, even his own mother and father before it all fell apart. He did not think he felt that way about Idril. She was kind, yes, and clever and brave too. Maeglin admired that. He wanted to be like her, delighted in watching her, wished for her friendship, and knew full well that she was discomfited by him.  _ She will not miss me _ , Maeglin thought to himself.  _ She won’t miss her strange little cousin who never does anything right. I wonder if she wishes that the javelin had hit me, and not my mother. _

Maeglin felt his eyes stinging, and viciously wiped the tears away. He would not cry, not in daylight. Hearing footsteps, he stood and began walking back towards his room. He would get his cloak and pack, and then be gone. 

“Titsë!” The laughing salutation stopped him in his tracks. Maeglin turned around and saw Glorfindel jogging towards him, smiling.

“Maeglin, I’m so glad I found you. You leave today, don’t you? I couldn’t let you go without saying goodbye.” Glorfindel said all of that in a breathless rush, slowing his pace to match Maeglin’s. 

“Thank you,” Maeglin answered. He couldn’t help but smile. Glorfindel’s joy was infectious.

“So, titsë, are you excited to go tramping off into the wilds? You’ll come back a better smith than anyone in the city, I’m sure of it.”

Maeglin snorted. “I doubt that.”

Glorfindel shook back his mane of hair and laughed. “Don’t you dare ignore my words of wisdom, Maeglin. You’ll learn the secrets of the Naugrim and probably come back with seventeen new metals and a wealth of knowledge.”

Maeglin smiled. “I appreciate your unconditional support.”

Glorfindel grinned back at him. “That’s what I’m here for.”

They walked along in companionable silence for a minute or two. When Glorfindel spoke again, his tone was serious.

“Titsë, I know that your uncle has probably already told you this, but be careful out there. There are. . . _ things _ in the mountains that it would be better for you not to run into.”

“I know. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure you will be, Maeglin. You’re resourceful and brave, just like your mother was.”

Maeglin shot a quick look at him. It wasn’t often that people compared him to his mother. 

“Thank you, Glorfindel.”

They had come to the door of Maeglin’s room. Glorfindel put a hand on his shoulder, his face still unusually solemn.

“Lómion, I don’t want to be repetitive, but please be safe. I won’t tell you not to go, because I knew your mother and I know you well enough to understand that saying that wouldn’t do anything, but still. Be careful. I lost her and I. . .I can’t lose you too.”

Maeglin stared up into Glorfindel’s worried face. Glorfindel didn’t talk about Aredhel very much; Maeglin hadn’t realized that guilt at her death still lingered in his heart. He was surprised, and rather unexpectedly touched that Glorfindel cared so much for his well-being. 

“I’ll be on my guard. And I won’t be gone very long. Nothing untoward will happen, I promise.”

Glorfindel smiled and rubbed his shoulder affectionately. “I’ll miss you, titsë. You’ll have to tell me all about it when you come back.”

Maeglin smiled. “I will.”

A chime sounded, announcing the hour. Glorfindel gave a start.

“Oh my! I have a meeting, and Ecthelion will drown me in one of his fountains if I’m late! Goodbye, Maeglin!”

And he rushed off down the hall, golden hair flying and robes clutched in his hands. 

Maeglin smiled minutely to himself as he watched him round the corner. Idril might not miss him, but Glorfindel would, and that was a comfort.

He tied the strings of his cloak, slung his pack over one shoulder, and took one final glance around his room. He felt an unforeseen pang of sadness at leaving. He hadn’t realized that Gondolin had been beginning to feel like home, despite the pitying stares and the whispers. 

_ Well _ , he thought to himself,  _ I won’t be gone long.  _

_ No one would care if you were _ , whispered another voice in the back of his mind.  _ Do you really think anyone would mind if you just disappeared? _

_ Be quiet _ , Maeglin admonished the voice. It didn’t respond. 

Maeglin took a deep breath and strode out of his room. It was time to go.

  
  
  
  
  



	4. Into the Mist

Ranyar and Lianis, his two companions, were waiting for Maeglin in the courtyard, holding the horses and chatting quietly. They were smiths of the House of the Mole, and Maeglin liked them well enough, if only for the fact that they did not mistrust him or gaze at him with some mixture of pity and disgust. Maeglin could deal with vilification, but pity burned him like acid. 

Ranyar tossed Maeglin the reins of his steed.

“Excited to be off?” His tone was friendly. 

Maeglin nodded once and swung himself up into the saddle. He was not in the mood to talk.

They trotted their horses across the courtyard and through the city streets, heading for the main gate. The guards did not hinder them, and the gates swung soundlessly open, despite their disuse. They trotted through.

The wind ruffled Maeglin’s hair as they broke into a canter across the plain. He was free out here, with the mountains rearing their snowy heads before him and the white walls of Gondolin behind. He had forgotten what it felt like to not be encircled by stone and glass. He urged his horse into a gallop, delighting in the rush of air and the swell of the grass before him. 

They reached the feet of the mountains in good time, and slowed to a walk. The way was steep and rocky; it paid to be careful. Lianis went first, sword hanging at her side, followed by Maeglin, and Ranyar last of all. 

Up they went, higher and higher under the glowering sky. They paused in the early afternoon, letting the horses drink at a spring and refilling their canteens. The water was sharp and cold.

The afternoon began to fade into misty twilight, but they pushed on until darkness fell, when they found a small sheltered place between rock walls and camped. Maeglin murmured a song of concealment, of shadow and shade. There were occasional orc bands in the mountains, and natural things too; fierce animals and stone giants. He had learned the song from his mother, long ago in Nan Elmoth, where sometimes hiding was necessary. He pushed the memory away and curled himself close to their small fire, occupying himself with chewing on a piece of jerky. He would not think of Nan Elmoth out here in the darkness. It felt too real, too close. 

Lianis offered to take the first watch, leaving Maeglin and Ranyar to wrap themselves in their cloaks and get what rest they might on the hard ground. Ranyar was soon snoring softly, but Maeglin lay awake, watching the embers of the fire. He suddenly felt very small, with the sky stretching above him and the vast mountains all around. An owl called, the sound eerie in the darkness, but it did not frighten Maeglin. He had heard them as a child, and his mother had liked them.  _ Don’t be afraid, Lómion _ , she had told him one night, when he was still small enough to be held in the soft circle of her arms.  _ They’re singing you to sleep.  _

Maeglin sighed and turned over, blinking away the stinging in his eyes. Sometimes he wondered if his mother had truly loved him, or if he had simply been another weight, another one of Eöl’s fetters to chain her to him.  _ But if that had been the case _ , commented the logical part of Maeglin’s mind,  _ why did she take you with her when she left? _ Yes, there was that. And why had she taken the javelin for him, if she hadn’t loved him?  _ Maybe _ , whispered another part of Maeglin’s mind,  _ it was an escape to her; an open doorway; the only way that she could be fully free from Eöl’s grasp. Maybe she was happy to go.  _

A tear trickled down Maeglin’s cheek, and then another and another, until his face was slick with them and he fell into an uneasy sleep, full of dreams of forests and bright blood staining white cloth. It was a relief when Ranyar woke him in the cold hours before dawn to take his turn at watch. 

~ ~ ~

The second day passed much as the first had. They climbed ever higher, sometimes dismounting to lead their horses. The air grew thinner and colder, and here and there patches of snow clung stubbornly to the rock. The sky was just as grey and lowering as it had been the day before.

They spoke sometimes, of metals and ore and tools; of the glittering cities of the Naugrim deep under the ground, but mostly they rode in silence, the only sound the clopping of the horses’ hooves and the cool wind blowing. 

Maeglin felt uneasy. He wished to be alone, but when he was, the silence seemed oppressive and suffocating. He felt exposed on the rocky mountainside, where there were few trees, creature of the forest that he was. He clenched his hands tightly on the reins to keep them from trembling, and listened to Ranyar and Lianis talk quietly to each other. 

They camped that night in the shadow of an overhanging cliff. Their little fire smoked and popped, for it had rained in the afternoon and what wood they could find was damp. Maeglin had sung the flames into being, but he couldn’t persuade them to cooperate after they had been kindled. He wrapped himself in his cloak and hummed quietly, a song his mother had taught him, to guard against the cold. It didn’t work, and he shivered through the night, waking chilled and damp. 

They rode through banks of mist as the third day grew older. Maeglin could barely see Ranyar’s back ahead of him through the grey haze. He almost called a halt, but decided against it. They would go on, mist was nothing to be frightened by. 

But Maeglin couldn’t deny that the stunted trees and rock formations began to take on distinctly threatening shapes, turning to ghoulish phantoms in the mist. Maeglin pulled his damp cloak close around himself and hunched close to his horse’s neck. Even the normally placid mare was skittish and shyed at every movement beside the path. Maeglin patted her with a hand that trembled only slightly. 

From up ahead, Maeglin heard a slight whistling sound, and then a  _ thunk _ . He looked up anxiously, squinting at Ranyar’s back, which seemed to be growing closer. . .

Maeglin gave a gasp of horror, for Ranyar tumbled off his horse and lay still, a black-feathered arrow sticking from the hollow of his throat, dark blood pooling around it. 

  
  



	5. Captured

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note--there's some violence in this chapter. If you don't want to read it, just go to the end notes. You'll find a summary there. :)

After that, several things happened in quick succession. Maeglin gave a strangled yell of warning to Lianis as he drew his sword, but at the same moment, another black-feathered arrow thudded into the ground at his mare’s feet, and she reared up, whinnying shrilly. Maeglin found himself lying on the ground, his sword several feet away. Gasping for breath, he crawled towards it, but suddenly shapes appeared in the fog, emerging from the rocks and scrub--orcs, a whole troop of them. 

Maeglin made a desperate grab for his sword, but he was jerked back by an orc yanking at his cloak with a snarl. He slapped his dagger out of its sheath, twisting around and stabbing at the orc’s stomach. He felt the blade strike home, blood spurting over his hand. The orc gave a cry and stumbled backwards, releasing Maeglin unscathed. 

_ Curse this fog _ , Maeglin thought to himself. He could barely see through it now. His horse was nowhere in sight (he hoped she had had the good sense to bolt straight back to Gondolin), and though he could hear Lianis yelling somewhere ahead of him, he couldn’t see her. 

Another orc ran at him, swinging a club spiked with iron. Maeglin dodged, narrowly avoiding being struck. He could feel the breath of air on his cheek from the orc’s swing. His heart beat wildly, his breath coming in gasps. The orc came at him again, and Maeglin threw himself to the ground and stabbed at its clawed feet. The orc bellowed, stumbling in pain and surprise. Maeglin rolled out of the way. 

And into the way of another orc, who gave a snarl of glee and slashed at Maeglin with claws like razors that ripped through his cloak and tunic, tearing at the flesh beneath. Maeglin screamed and scrabbled at the orc’s legs, but his knife glanced harmlessly off its armor. The orc gouged downwards again, and Maeglin, dizzy with pain, felt the claws scrape along his ribs, setting his side aflame. 

He stabbed upwards again, but the thrust was weak, and the orc easily dodged it, knocking Maeglin’s knife out of his hand. Maeglin gave a choked wail. He had no more weapons, no more tricks. Turgon had been right. He should never have left Gondolin. The orc loomed over him, poised for the kill.

And suddenly, clear as a chime, Maeglin heard his mother’s bright voice in his mind.  _ Use your surroundings, Lómion! Look around you and make use of what you have!  _

As the orc raised its claws for the final blow, Maeglin groped beside him, his fingers scratching at the rocky ground. He dug in, pulling up a sharp-edged rock, and just as the orc finished its moment of gloating and prepared to slash downwards, Maeglin threw the stone upwards with all his remaining strength. 

His aim was true. The rock struck the orc’s face, and it gave a yowl of pain and shock. Maeglin, ignoring the burning pain in his side, hoisted himself to his feet, grabbed his dagger from where it lay on the ground, and brought it down with all his strength onto the orc’s unprotected neck. It gave a gurgling moan and collapsed. 

Maeglin, breathing hard, stumbled towards a boulder, reaching out to hold himself up. He couldn’t hear Lianis anymore, and he hoped that she had escaped. He reached the stone, collapsing against it, spent. Tears pricked his eyes, and a strangled sob made its way out of his throat. His legs shook.

And then Maeglin, with a sickening lurch of terror, realized that the boulder was not stone at all. It was a massive orc, clad all in iron and steel; whose misshapen eyes were looking directly into Maeglin’s.

Maeglin reeled backwards with a squeak, but the orc reached out one ponderous arm and grasped the front of his tunic, towing him forwards. It lifted Maeglin off the ground, squinting into his face. 

“You,” rumbled the orc in the eerie Valarin tongue, “You are very small.” 

Maeglin dangled helplessly, casting about for some trick, something to whip out and ride to victory, but there was nothing. His heart pounded in his ears, as if it would leap out of him, and his breaths were shallow gasps. 

The orc continued its scrutiny. “Very small indeed,” it said. “But my master appreciates small things like you to play with.” The orc chuckled. “Oh, yes. He  _ loves _ his toys.” 

“Let me  _ go _ ,” Maeglin managed to hiss, kicking at the hulking orc, who merely shook him up and down.

“Now, why would I do that? You’re such a lovely little thing.” The orc snickered. “No, no. I think I’ll take you with me.”

Maeglin bared his teeth and twisted in the orc’s grip, weakly flailing his limbs. Blood dripped onto the ground. He felt dizzy, sick with fear and pain. Dark spots danced across his vision.

Calmly, the orc raised its sword, hilt forward, and swung it towards Maeglin’s head. It seemed to come very slowly, and Maeglin watched it, as if through water. His limbs felt too heavy to lift; he hung there for a moment, sluggish and still. 

And then there was a jarring spike of pain, and Maeglin slipped into merciful darkness. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All righty, for those of you who didn't read the chapter, here's the short version of what happened: an orc troop attacked Maeglin and his companions. Maeglin's horse threw him and bolted, Maeglin fought several orcs and was wounded. Thinking an orc was a boulder and trying to lean against it (way to go, Maeglin), he ended up captured and is now unconscious.


	6. Aching

When Maeglin awoke, he found himself jouncing up and down over the shoulder of the same orc who had picked him up on the mountainside. He could hear the clinking of metal, the tramping of feet, and the rough voices of the orcs calling out to each other in Valarin. Maeglin was suddenly very grateful to his mother for teaching him the strange tongue. Perhaps he could find out where they were taking him.

Maeglin was suddenly choked by a white-hot surge of terror. He had to get away, had to run. He twisted frantically in the orc’s grasp, gasping at the sharp pain in his side. 

“Stop that, you,” growled the orc, tightening its grip on Maeglin. 

Cursing himself for his thoughtlessness, Maeglin went limp. How could he have been so  _ stupid _ as to draw attention to himself? He had learned, long ago in Nan Elmoth, that melting into the shadows was the best way to stay safe. He clenched his teeth. He would not surrender to fear now. 

Instead, he took a mental inventory of himself. He had no weapons, those were lost on the mountainside. His arms were bound behind him. There was a dull, throbbing pain in his side and on his back. He could feel cool air ruffling the torn edges of clothing. His head ached, and the ground swam below him dizzily. His mouth was dry.

As if awakened by Maeglin’s attention, he became very aware that he was terribly thirsty. How long had it been since the attack? The light was grey; it could be early morning. Had he slept through the night? He didn’t know. 

Lifting his head slightly, Maeglin could see that he was in the middle of the orc troop. No one seemed to be paying very much attention to him; they seemed to be absorbed in talking with each other. Maeglin strained to hear through the tumult of clanking weaponry, but heard nothing of use to him. It was all just chatter about weapons and the trying pace at which they were going, and food.

Food. Maeglin’s stomach growled.  _ Stop _ , Maeglin thought at it.  _ You’re fine. You’ve gone without food for longer than this. _ Unsurprisingly, his stomach did not think much of that logical argument, and as the hours passed and the light grew, hunger clawed at Maeglin’s insides. 

At what Maeglin guessed to be midday, the orcs came to a halt, apparently to wait until the hours of darkness to continue. Maeglin’s captor (who, it turned out, was named Urag) dropped him unceremoniously into the dust and stalked off without a second glance. Apparently, he wasn’t too concerned about Maeglin’s potential to run away.

Lifting his head, Maeglin could see that they were almost to the feet of the mountains. A plain stretched below them, dun-colored and deserted under the glowering sky. Maeglin tried to think back to the maps he had pored over with Turgon. He supposed they were heading north, towards Angband.

_ Angband _ . Maeglin shivered involuntarily. He had heard tales of its horrors, of the wolves that howled at its gates and the dark fog that hung over it even in daytime. He had seen the scars and shattered eyes of the escaped thralls that lived in Gondolin, under the protection of Rog. Maeglin squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe slowly. It would be all right. He would find a way out. He always did. 

“You! Little elf!” Someone shook Maeglin. He opened his eyes to see Urag scowling down at him, and affected his haughtiest glare in response.

Urag rolled his eyes and thrust a lump of indeterminate color at Maeglin. “Here. Boss says I’ve got to feed you.”

Maeglin sighed and tried to keep his voice from quavering. “Well, I can’t eat with my hands bound like this, so either untie me or feed me yourself.”

Urag snorted and tossed the lump to the ground beside Maeglin’s head. “You don’t need your hands to eat, princeling.”

Maeglin reviewed his options. He could refuse to eat, but that would only leave him hungry, and he had to have his wits about him if he was going to escape. Yes, it would be mortifying to eat off the ground, but he had been humiliated before. He would survive. 

Maeglin rolled himself over onto his stomach, feeling blood seeping down his side. Apparently he had reopened his wounds. He bit his lip and held back a moan, nosing at Urag’s offering. 

Maeglin opened his mouth and took a bite. It was gummy and nearly tasteless, but it was food. Dust coated his lips and he heard one or two orcs laugh. He squeezed his eyes shut. He would not cry, not about this, not in front of the orcs. 

Maeglin lay with his head on the ground. His arms ached. As the hours passed, he slipped into a sort of daze, dimly watching the goings-on around him. He could hear the orcs talking but paid them no heed. 

As darkness fell, Urag returned, carrying a flask in his hand. He jerked Maeglin upright into a sitting position, staring down at him. 

“Thirsty, princeling?”

Maeglin swallowed his dignity and nodded mutely. Urag pushed the flask roughly to his lips, spilling liquid down Maeglin’s front and into his mouth. Maeglin gulped, and then burst out coughing, his throat burning. Whatever he had drunk, it definitely wasn’t water. Urag guffawed and tipped more of the vile stuff into Maeglin’s mouth. Maeglin choked and coughed, his eyes watering. Several other orcs had gathered around to watch the fun, and they laughed raucously and yelled enthusiastically to Urag. 

Maeglin closed his eyes and pulled into himself, to a place where everything was peaceful and quiet and calm. He thought of trees, and clear pools, and flowers sparkling with dew. There was no yelling, no pain, no jeering taunts, not here. He was far away. 

Sensing that the entertainment was over, the orcs gathered themselves to continue the march. Urag picked up Maeglin, throwing him over his shoulder as if he weighed nothing at all. Off they went, out into the cool, moonless night. 

Maeglin was grateful for the darkness. He could let his tears overflow, spilling soundlessly down his face and falling to the ground, unnoticed. 

Somehow, despite the dull ache of his wounds, Maeglin slipped into a fitful doze, his dreams full of wolves and fog. 

  
  



	7. Swallowed

The days bled together, the tattered edges of one feeding seamlessly into the next. The sky was a dull grey, the plain was dusty, and the wind grew steadily colder as they traveled. Maeglin shivered, teeth chattering. An orc had taken his cloak, and his tunic was torn and ragged. His feet were bare now, his treasured boots snatched while he slept. He had cried in rage and sorrow when he had woken to that, and the orc who had taken them had laughed and pranced about, well pleased with his newfound finery. 

Maeglin wasn’t sure how long they had been traveling. They were close to their destination now, from the talk of the orcs, but it all seemed to run together. One evening, as they prepared to go on for the nighttime leg of their journey, Maeglin made up his mind to find out all he could. He called and called, until finally, an orc by the name of Pargu loped over to him, glaring suspiciously.

“What’s the matter with you?” He sniffed at Maeglin, as if he could discern the cause of the shouting with his nose.

Maeglin worked hard to keep his tone quiet and respectful. “I was just wondering if you could tell me where exactly you’re taking me. Please.”

Pargu chortled. “Oh, that’s easy. You’re going off to Angband, and I don’t envy you.”

_So I was right on one count_ , thought Maeglin, with a tingle of dread. Outwardly, he kept his face submissive, calm. “And how much longer will it take to get there?”

Pargu snickered again. “Awfully curious, aren’t we? Excited to see the lords? You don’t have long to wait. We’ll be there tomorrow.”

Maeglin nodded, containing his terror. “Thank you,” he whispered, expecting Pargu to slouch away. 

But Pargu plopped himself down beside Maeglin and tapped his chest with one clawed hand. “I wonder what he’ll do to you,” he mused, leering down at Maeglin. “ Maybe he’ll send you to the mines. You’ll never see the sun again. I hear they whip the prisoners there until they bleed out,” Pargu continued. “ Down there, they’d break a little thing like you in a minute.”

Maeglin tried to block out Pargu’s voice, to go to the calm place inside himself, but he was wrenched back.

“Or maybe,  _ he’ll  _ give you to Lord Mairon, to play with.” Pargu chuckled. “Who knows what he’d do to you.”

Maeglin squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe slowly, to force down the rising tide of panic in his breast. 

“Whatever it is, you won’t be fetching for much longer, princeling.” Pargu tapped Maeglin’s chin with a curving claw. “More’s the pity, I say. They’ll ruin your pretty face.”

Maeglin resisted the urge to scream. He wished he could run, or hide, or disappear into the ground. Try as he might to stop them, tears began to squeeze out from under his closed lids. Pargu snorted.

“Scared, princeling? Not in such a hurry now, are we?”

Before he could continue, Urag’s harsh voice broke in.

“Get along, Pargu. Quit dawdling or I’ll report you to the boss.”

Pargu spat at Urag’s feet and ambled away. With a grunt, Urag slung Maeglin over his shoulder again, ignoring Maeglin’s gasp of pain. 

With a dissonant jangle of arms, the company moved off into the gathering dusk. A freezing wind began to blow, whipping Maeglin’s tangled hair around his face. He felt dizzy and ill, his head swimming. If they were really as close to Angband as Pargu had said, then Maeglin couldn’t possibly escape. But he couldn’t go into the dark fortress; he would never come out, he would die, alone and suffering. He had to get away, he had to flee, to hide, to run. 

Maeglin began to shake. He was out of time. He had no plan; there was no one here to ride to his rescue and nowhere to run. He would be swallowed up by Angband’s gaping maw, lost forever. 

_ No _ , thought Maeglin.  _ No, I’ll get out somehow. I swear it. I’ll do whatever it takes to get out.  _

As the night wore on, Maeglin slipped into a feverish dream, a nightmare from which there was no waking. He thought he heard his mother’s voice calling out to him, but when he hoarsely cried back, the only sound was Urag’s grunt of  _ quiet, you.  _ His bound arms were numb. His mouth was dry, his lips cracked and hot. 

_ Infection _ , Maeglin dimly thought.  _ The wounds. They must be infected. Have to. . .have to clean them. Clean them with. . . _

But his knowledge of herbs and growing things eluded him, surrounded as he was by barren wasteland. He was pulled back under, into nightmares and fading visions.

The new day was dawning elsewhere in Middle Earth, but on the plain of Anfauglith, darkness still reigned. Maeglin, hanging face downwards as he was, did not see the craggy peaks of Thangorodrim rearing up from the colorless steppe, nor did he see the sprawling camps of orc soldiers scattered about the feet of the mountains, like eggs about a dragon. 

He did not see the iron gates of Angband swing open before them, and he did not see the yellow-eyed wolves that snarled as they passed. Maeglin was insensible to it all, lost in a feverish fog. 

But Maeglin did hear the creaking clang of the gates slamming shut behind them. It sounded like a death knell, and he wailed as the last echoes faded away. 

  
  



	8. The Lieutenant

Slowly, orc by orc, the troop dwindled until it was just Urag carrying Maeglin through the dark corridors. Maeglin was crying, not caring anymore if anyone saw. He shrieked until his throat ached and kicked weakly at Urag, but the orc only shifted him with a grunt.

Suddenly, they came to a halt, and Maeglin was dropped roughly to the ground. His legs buckled beneath him and he fell onto his knees with a cry. Looking up, he saw before them two massive doors of iron. There were braziers on either side of the entry, but they cast little light, and the ceiling was lost in the gloom. Two orcs stood beside the braziers, and Urag spoke to them.

“You can take him from here,” he growled, making as if to stump away. 

The orc on the right spoke in a nasal, peevish tone. “Afraid of the lords, are you?” He snickered. “Go and run back to your shoddy mountain patrol, Urag. They’ve got lots of cowards, you’ll be right at home.”

“Or better yet,” added the orc on the left, “just go and get lost up there. You’re useless enough as it is.”

“Shut up, both of you,” snarled Urag. “Did either of you two louts bring in an elf?” He spat on the floor. “I didn’t think so.”

The whinging orc leaned close to Maeglin’s face, jerking his chin up with one hand. “He doesn’t look too good, though. I bet he’ll be dead before the day is out.”

The other orc chortled. “Look at him, crying and sniveling. Pathetic.”

“I’m. . .not. . .” whispered Maeglin. “I’m . . .not. . .pathetic.”

The orcs cackled and jeered. 

“Sure you’re not! That’s why you’re crying like a blasted pup!”

“Elves. Weaklings, all of them.”

Maeglin felt rage boiling up inside him, hot and red and deadly, but before he could do anything more than hiss through his teeth, Urag spoke up again.

“Quiet! You’ll draw the wrong sort of attention, carrying on this way. Just send him in and  _ they’ll _ deal with him.”

The laughing orcs subsided. “Wonder how many pieces he’ll come out in,” mused one.

“My guess is Lord Mairon’ll feed him to his darling pets,” replied the other, smirking down at Maeglin. 

“Stop chatting and be quick,” snapped Urag, yanking Maeglin to his feet. 

“All right, all right.” One of the orcs slipped through a smaller door beside the large ones and came out a moment later, looking relieved.

“Unbind him and send him in alone,” he directed at Urag. 

Urag drew his knife and slashed through Maeglin’s bonds. Maeglin stumbled forwards, his arms numb and aching. The stone was very cold against his bare feet.

The two orcs yanked at the doors, pulling them open with much creaking and grunting. Maeglin stood still on the threshold, staring into the darkness before him.

One of the orcs shoved him again.

“In you go, little coward. Send my regards to the Lords of Darkness.” He chortled. 

Maeglin staggered dizzily into the gloom. The doors slammed shut behind him, plunging him into total darkness for a moment. He whimpered.

As his eyes adjusted, he found that he was in a huge, columned hall. The soaring ceiling was invisible in the blackness, as was the end of the long room. Before him, a table with two high-backed chairs was silhouetted against the dim red glow of more iron braziers full of dancing flames. A wolf was curled around one of the chairs. It snarled slightly and curled its lip at Maeglin. 

An elegant hand, rings gleaming on the long fingers, reached down and softly stroked the animal’s head.

A voice came from the owner of the hand. 

“Come into the light,” it said, its tone beguilingly sweet. 

Maeglin felt rooted to the floor. He could feel his heart throwing itself desperately against his ribcage. His breath came in short, sharp gasps. 

“Don’t be shy,” said the musical voice. “Come here.”

Maeglin stumbled forward, into the circle of light cast by the flames. He could see the two figures at the table clearly now. Raw panic clawed at his throat. 

Opposite to him, there appeared to be a broad-shouldered Elf, with silvery hair and expressionless blue eyes. He reeked of brimstone and a metallic scent like blood.  _ A Balrog _ , thought Maeglin.  _ It must be. Oh, Eru, give me strength. _

The other chair was occupied by a slighter person, the one who had spoken. Prettily arranged red-gold hair cascaded down over his shoulders. His eyes were golden and slit-pupiled, like a cat’s. His skin was pale, but light seemed to pulse beneath it, giving him an eerie radiance. His smiling mouth was very red, like the snout of a wolf after a kill. A detailed pattern of a third eye had been painstakingly inked on his forehead. Maeglin shivered. He had no doubt as to who it was, even through his feverish haze. Sauron Gorthaur, the devious lieutenant of Morgoth. Maeglin swayed and folded onto his knees with a soft whine. 

The Balrog sniffed disdainfully. “It is rather small, don’t you think?”

Sauron shrugged elegantly. “Appearances can be deceiving, Lungorthin, but I really wouldn’t expect you to understand subtlety.”

The Balrog--Lungorthin--curled his lip. “Well, everyone knows you’re the expert in lies and deceptions.”

Sauron laughed, a sound like chimes. “If you think to offend me, you’re going about it abysmally. But no matter. We have a guest. We must be polite.”

He turned his golden gaze on Maeglin and smiled. His teeth looked very sharp. 

“Tell us, little one, who are you?”

Maeglin could see no other option but to answer. His legs weren’t steady enough to carry him away, and even if they were, he was positive that the wolf could run faster than he.

“My name is Maeglin. Lómion.” His voice sounded high and frightened, even in his own ears. 

“Well, Maeglin-Lómion,” said Sauron, “I welcome you to Angband.” He paused, as if considering. “Tell me, child, where did you come from?”

“Gondolin,” Maeglin answered mechanically. 

The thought that perhaps he shouldn’t tell them he was from Gondolin had been slow to push through the fog gathering in Maeglin’s mind, and he cursed himself for his thoughtlessness when Sauron’s smile grew wider.

“Well, how very wonderful,” he said silkily, caressing the head of the wolf. 

There was a silence, broken by the Balrog.

“He’s mine.” 

Sauron’s tone changed, becoming flinty, dangerous. “If you think, my dear colleague, that I’m going to let you break this treasure in your horrid dungeon, then you’re even dimmer than I gave you credit for.” 

Lungorthin glared across the table. “As if your methods are any better than mine.”

Sauron smiled, toying with the jewels on his hands. “It’s not that they’re  _ better _ , Captain, it’s that yours are simply  _ so  _ uncouth. So very backward. Antiquated, one might say.” 

The Balrog gave a snort. “At least they’re reliable. Unlike your means.”

Sauron’s smile grew wider. “I am unreliable, then?” His voice dropped to a murmur. “I suppose that’s why  _ I _ am second-in-command to Lord Melkor, while  _ you _ are, essentially, cleaning staff.” He wrinkled his nose. “Oh, excuse me, I meant  _ captain of security _ .”

Lungorthin let out an incoherent growl of rage and stood up. Sauron merely smirked. 

“Temper, temper, Lungorthin. You really have got to learn some self-control.”

“You conniving little sybarite! Don’t you dare--!” 

“Now, think, my friend, is it really your place to tell me what I can and cannot do?” Sauron asked sweetly.

Lungorthin reached forward as if to grab him, but before his hands could touch Sauron, another voice broke in from the darkness at the end of the hall.

“This is immensely entertaining, gentleman, but I’m getting tired of listening to that brat snivel on the floor, so kindly wrap up your little chat and get on with whatever you two are supposed to be doing.”

The voice was deep, and so resonant that it seemed to Maeglin like the stones themselves were speaking. He peered into the gloom at the end of the hall, looking for the source of the admonishment. It certainly seemed to have stopped both Lungorthin and Sauron in their tracks. . . 

With dawning horror, Maeglin lifted his eyes slowly from the ground. A towering figure seated on a throne could be dimly discerned against the deeper darkness. Two tiny pinpricks of light shone out from far above. Maeglin trembled. If those were the cursed jewels, the Silmarils of Fëanor, then the only being that could be occupying that throne was Morgoth, Lord of Darkness. 

Maeglin clenched his teeth to hold in a scream and directed his gaze back down to the floor. His hands looked very pale, almost child-like, against the black stone. He felt as he had when he was a child in Nan Elmoth, cowering before his father’s icy gaze. The floor swam in and out of focus.

With an effort, Lungorthin mastered himself and sat down again. “My apologies, Lord Melkor,” he choked out, sounding as though he was gritting his teeth. Sauron smiled at him mockingly.

Morgoth snorted. “Yes, yes. I’m sure you’re ever so sorry. You always are.”

He turned his attention to Sauron and waved a careless hand. Maeglin could smell burnt flesh. “Lieutenant, I give the prisoner to you. Take him and be done.”

Sauron's smile grew triumphant. “Thank you, milord. Rest assured that I will succeed.” 

Morgoth smiled, his scarred face twisting. “I’m sure you will, little wolf. You have never failed me.”

Sauron stood and bowed gracefully. “Well, I’ll be on my way then.” He waved an airy hand towards the Balrog. His tone dripped mockery. “Farewell, Lungorthin! Better luck next time.”

As he came closer, Sauron seemed to grow taller. Maeglin curled himself into a ball on the floor. He couldn’t stop himself from trembling.

Sauron bent down, gently stroking Maeglin’s hair with one hand. 

“Oh, dear, dear, dear, you’re hurt! Poor child. Not to worry, we’ll patch those cuts up.”

Maeglin flinched away. “Don’t touch me,” he hissed raggedly. Sauron merely laughed softly and rested the back of his hand on Maeglin’s forehead.

“And you’re burning up with fever. Oh, it’s positively pitiful to see someone as young as you in this state.”

Maeglin struggled, swaying, to his feet. “I am not a child,” he snarled. “And I need no help from you.”

Sauron smiled indulgently. “Of course you don’t, sweet thing.”

Maeglin tried to stand and glare defiantly, as he had practiced, but a wave of dizziness overcame him and he slumped forwards. Before he could crumple to the floor again, Sauron stepped forwards and caught him.  _ He must be stronger than he looks _ , Maeglin thought dimly. He could feel the silky material of Sauron’s robe against his cheek and smell the perfume in his hair. 

“Now, now, my pet, you mustn’t hurt yourself,” murmured Sauron, honey in his voice. “Go to sleep, darling.”

Maeglin felt his head drooping forwards, his limbs going slack. He struggled, pulling against the current of drowsiness that threatened to submerge him, but his eyes drifted shut against his will. 

Sauron smiled and lifted Maeglin off the floor, settling his head on his shoulder. Behind him, Lungorthin made a sound of contempt.

“Really, Sauron? You’re going to play nursemaid for this pathetic Elvish weakling?”

Sauron rolled his eyes. “Oh, Lungorthin. How little you know about finesse.” He turned and bowed slightly to the figure in the back of the hall. “Farewell for the moment, milord. Thank you for your trust in me.”

“See that you don’t fail me, Lieutenant,” Morgoth replied. 

“I will not. You have my word.”

With one last gloating look at the Balrog, Sauron tossed his gleaming hair over his shoulder and walked lightly out of the hall, the wolf following in his wake and Maeglin cradled limply in his arms. 

  
  



	9. The Healer

The fever raged on. Maeglin cried out, clawing at his blankets with clammy hands. Nightmarish faces seemed to stare down at him, twisted beyond recognition. Sometimes he saw his mother, or Idril, but they never stayed for long. Glorfindel came to him too, but he did not speak, and his face dissolved into Sauron’s, smiling placidly down at Maeglin with malice in his golden eyes. 

Maeglin was sometimes aware of cool hands that held water to his cracked lips, helping him to drink as if he were a little child again. Sometimes he heard singing, clear and bright, rising and falling but with words he couldn’t understand. He dimly wondered who it was, but always he slipped into sleep before he found them. 

~ ~ ~

Maeglin opened his eyes, blinking. The room came into focus slowly. He seemed to be lying on a pallet on the floor of some sort of workroom. There were shelves along the walls, holding jars and vials all labeled in the same, precise hand. There was a table against the far wall, and Maeglin could see a mortar and pestle sitting there, like the ones a healer would use. Scrolls were neatly filed on racks beneath. Hanging lamps glowed with golden light, lending the room a burnished, almost cozy look. 

_ Where am I? _ Maeglin thought. He wasn’t in Gondolin, that was for sure. The healers’ rooms didn’t look like this. He wasn’t in Nan Elmoth, there was too much light. Suddenly, a fragment of memory flashed before Maeglin’s eyes. A dark hall. Two arguing figures. A snarling wolf. An attack. 

With a sickening lurch of horror, Maeglin remembered. He was in Angband, a prisoner. The argument had been over him. Maeglin pushed himself up, tearing the blankets away. Dizziness washed over him, and his side began to ache dully again. Maeglin drew in a sharp breath. He had forgotten about the wounds.

The door swung open with a rattle, and Maeglin cowered back, curling in on himself. Sauron stood in the doorway, elegant and beautiful as he had been in the hall. He walked to Maeglin’s side and stood looking down at him, smiling.

“Little one, how glad I am to see you awake,” he exclaimed. “I admit, I was a bit worried for you, darling, but you came through beautifully.” He knelt by Maeglin’s cot, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Come, child, lie back down. You’re still weak, and you need to rest.”

Maeglin flinched away from his caress. “Don’t touch me,” he croaked. His voice was rusty and small.

Sauron laughed softly. “Oh, you do have spirit, don’t you?”

Maeglin fisted his hands in the blankets and fought off another bout of vertigo. “What are you going to do to me,  _ Sauron _ ?” He spit the name out like a curse.

Sauron smiled wider, unperturbed by Maeglin’s tone. “Actually, I prefer to be called Mairon. And as for your question, well, I’m not going to  _ do _ anything to you except help you heal. When you’re stronger, we will speak on this again. Now, let me look at those scratches.”

Seeing no other option, Maeglin pushed the blankets back and allowed Sauron to examine the gashes. Maeglin was shocked to see that they were almost completely healed.

“How’d you do that?” He asked after a moment, curiosity overcoming fear.

Sauron shrugged. “Salve and some simple songs. It wasn’t a challenge.”

“For someone with such an appetite for destruction, you’re quite an accomplished healer.”

Sauron laughed lightly. “Destruction? Is that what they taught you in the White City?”

Maeglin glared at him. “It’s what I’ve seen with my own eyes.”

Sauron tipped Maeglin’s chin up with one delicate finger. “Well, my pet, your eyes can deceive you. Creation is my passion, not obliteration. And anyways, it is wise to be able to heal as well as kill.”

Maeglin looked away, letting his hair fall across his face. Fear writhed its way up his throat, choking him. 

Sauron rose and walked away, busying himself with his vials on the other side of the room. Maeglin could hear him humming softly to himself. The light gave his hair a ruddy sheen, like flames. Maeglin watched him warily. 

A few minutes later, Sauron knelt again at Maeglin’s side, holding out a carved cup. 

“Drink this, sweet one.”

Maeglin drew back. “How do I know you’re not trying to poison me?”

Sauron threw back his head and laughed, eyes sparkling. “Suspicious child, it would not profit me to kill you now. You are clever enough to realize that.”

Maeglin folded his arms across his chest. “Then what  _ do _ you want?”

Sauron smiled playfully. “Must I tell you everything, little one? Can you not guess?”

Maeglin didn’t answer for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was quieter. “Well then, here is my guess: you want me to tell you where Gondolin is.”

Sauron set down the cup and clapped his hands delightedly. “Oh, well done! I knew you were perceptive!” He smiled. “So, my pet, will you give me what I ask? It’s such a small thing, after all.”

Maeglin forced himself to look directly into those cat-like eyes. “I won’t do it. I will  _ never _ betray them. You can torture me all you like, but you won’t get a word out of me, I can promise that,” he said in a low voice.

Sauron’s lips quirked. “You’d be amazed at how often I’ve heard that, dear.”

Maeglin clenched his fists. “You don’t scare me.”

Sauron lifted a hand and rested it gently against Maeglin’s cheek. “Ah, but I do scare you. I scare you very much.”

Maeglin dug his nails into his palms. He would not flinch or look away. He would not give Sauron the satisfaction of seeing him cower. 

Sauron stroked Maeglin’s face, smiling faintly. “Little prince, shall I tell you what I could do to you? Since you aren’t afraid of me?” His voice was very soft, silk hiding steel. “I could rip your soul from your body and tear it to shreds. I could burn you from the inside out, ravage your fëa until you wished that that uncouth imbecile Lungorthin had gotten you. I could drive you mad, fill your mind with shadows. Destruction may not be my passion, but, sweet child, I could ruin you.”

A strangled gasp escaped Maeglin’s lips. Sauron smiled. 

“Are you afraid now, little one?”

Maeglin clasped his hands over his mouth. He could feel himself trembling like a leaf in a gale. Shame and terror tasted bitter on his tongue. His voice fled into the deepest reaches of himself, quenched by the cruel regard of those golden eyes.

Sauron laughed gently. “But there’s no need for that, my child. I will not harm you, not yet. I’ve accomplished what I needed to today.” He lifted the cup again, holding it out to Maeglin. “Here. Lower your hands.”

Maeglin reluctantly took the cup and sipped. The contents tasted sweet, almost cloying. Sauron calmly watched him drink, holding out his hand for the cup when he was finished. 

Minute passed in silence. Maeglin drew his knees up and rested his head on them. The room seemed to be swaying, the floor buckling. Maeglin felt drowsy, heavy, sluggish. 

“What did you give to me?” His words slurred together. 

Sauron gently pushed him back until he was lying down again. “Don’t fight it, little prince.”

Maeglin struggled to keep his eyes open. He tried to push Sauron’s hands away, to sit up again, but his arms felt like lead weights had been tied to them. 

Sauron patted his cheek. “Sleep well, darling.” 

“No. . .” weakly whispered Maeglin. 

But the room was already blurring, and as Maeglin’s eyes drifted shut, it dissolved into mist. 

  
  



	10. On Your Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note--there is some pretty graphic violence in this chapter. If you don't want to read it, I have summarized the events in the end notes.

Maeglin found himself standing in the corridor outside his uncle’s chambers. There were no guards at the door, and he pushed it open. All was the same as it had been the day Maeglin departed. The scrolls on the shelves, the glowing lamps, the soft carpet on the floor. Maeglin looked around for Turgon.

“Uncle,” he called. “Uncle?” 

There was no reply. Maeglin pushed open doorways, peered through archways. Turgon was nowhere to be found. Maeglin grew steadily more anxious. His uncle should be here! Where was he?

Opening the final door, Maeglin saw his uncle seated at his desk, writing. Maeglin could hear his pen nib scratching the parchment. He breathed a sigh of relief.

“Milord?”

Turgon didn’t look up. Maeglin moved closer.

“Uncle? I’ve been looking for you.”

Turgon set down his pen and raised his head. “Hello, child,” he said, but his voice was eerily smooth, musical. Maeglin looked up to meet his eyes, and saw that they were golden, slit-pupiled, not his uncle’s at all. Turgon’s face dissolved into Sauron’s, lips curled in a triumphant smile. Turgon’s garnet-studded circlet sat on his head. 

Maeglin screamed and sat bolt upright, clutching at the blankets and breathing hard. He was alone, still on his cot in the workroom. He wrapped his arms around his knees, trying to catch his breath. Just a dream. Nothing but a nightmare. 

The door swung open and Sauron entered, smiling pleasantly and holding a bundle.

“Hello, dear. Had a good sleep?”

“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t drug me,” Maeglin said coldly. 

Sauron stroked Maeglin’s hair affectionately. “Well, I wanted you to rest, and if I had told you that I was sending you to sleep, you wouldn’t have drunk, would you?”

Maeglin hissed and jerked away from the touch. Sauron sat down beside him. 

“Oh, Maeglin. Don’t be childish. It was for your own good. Now, how do you feel?”

Maeglin’s temper flared. “Better if you left me alone!”

Sauron laughed outright. “My, my, my. How very plucky you are today! Rage suits you, darling.”

Maeglin turned away and fought to master himself. Sauron hummed a snatch of song. After a few minutes, he spoke again. 

“Little prince, don’t you want to see what I’ve brought you?”

“Not particularly, but I suppose I don’t have a choice.”

Sauron chuckled and patted Maeglin’s shoulder. “Oh, sweet one. You catch on so quickly.”

He held out the bundle. Maeglin reluctantly unraveled it, and stared expressionlessly at the black tunic and belt.

“Am I supposed to thank you?”

“Well, it would be polite, but I don’t expect it since you’re such a little horror today,” Sauron replied drily. “Anyways,” he continued, “since you’re obviously feeling well enough to try my patience, I think you can dress without help. I’ll wait for you outside.”

Without a backward glance, Sauron swept out the door and left Maeglin alone. Seeing no other course of action, Maeglin stood up (albeit with one or two failures; he was still unsteady on his feet) and pulled the tunic over his head. He had to roll the sleeves up twice to see his hands. Feeling even smaller than usual in the too-big clothes, Maeglin tied the belt around his waist with a sigh and padded out into the corridor. His feet were still bare, and the floor was cold. 

Sauron stood outside, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Maeglin moved to stand before him.

“Er. . .here I am,” he said, softer than before. Standing up, Sauron seemed quite tall. His earlier threats floated to the surface of Maeglin’s mind, and he looked down at his feet, hunching his shoulders.

Sauron raised one arched eyebrow. “Here you are. Why are you shivering, little one?”

Maeglin shrugged. “My feet are cold,” he said honestly. 

Sauron clucked his tongue. “Poor dear. I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to it, though. We don’t give our guests shoes here. Wouldn’t want any runaways, now would we?” He beckoned. “Come along, darling. You’ll warm up.”

With a rustle of silk, Sauron strode off down the corridor, with Maeglin bobbing in his wake. 

The hallways twisted and turned. There were many doorways, but they were all closed. Maeglin brushed his fingertips against the cold metal of one, but Sauron (without even turning around) sharply told him not to touch anything. There were no windows, and they passed only the occasional orc guard, helmeted and unreadable. Maeglin thought it was a bit like being in a tomb. He focused on breathing slowly; in and out, in and out. He was alive. He would escape somehow.

Sauron came to a stop before a polished door and murmured something unintelligible before pushing it open. Maeglin followed him inside, and immediately staggered to a halt, covering his eyes with his hands. The room was blindingly bright compared to the dimness of the corridors. Light glistened off of steel and glass. Everything was spotlessly white. 

Sauron laughed pityingly at Maeglin’s discomfort and patted his head. Maeglin stiffened and lowered his hands, blinking.

“Where are we?”

Sauron smiled. “I do much of my more. . .experimental work here, darling. You’ll be assisting me today, but first you will eat.”

He gestured to a small table by the door. A bowl sat on it, filled with a gelatinous, bluish substance that Maeglin didn’t recognize. What were the chances that Sauron was trying to poison him, or drug him into sleep again?  _ Slim _ , Maeglin thought.  _ He wouldn’t have brought me here only to kill me or send me to sleep. And I  _ do _ need to eat. _

Maeglin picked up the bowl and Sauron turned away from him, busying himself on the other side of the room. Maeglin sat down on the icy floor and poked at the contents of the dish. It jiggled disconcertingly. Maeglin sniffed at it. It smelled faintly like blueberries. With a shrug, Maeglin picked up the spoon that lay beside the bowl and began to eat. Nearly tasteless, but it was food. He gobbled every morsel, suddenly ravenous. 

Sauron turned and watched him in faint amusement. Maeglin set the bowl down with as much dignity as he could muster and rose.

“Thank you.” It came automatically. He had been trained to be courteous, and evidently politeness was a hard habit to break. 

Sauron arched an eyebrow. “Learning some manners, little one? I’m glad.” Without waiting for Maeglin to respond, Sauron turned away again, beckoning Maeglin to his side. “First, my clever assistant, I would like you to clean these vials and rewrite the labels you see on them. Take care to be exact. I’ll be back shortly.”

He walked away again and disappeared through another door. Before Maeglin could move, Sauron’s honeyed voice drifted back to him. 

“Oh, and darling, if you were considering poking about in things that don’t concern you, rest assured that I can see you at all times. Now, carry on with the vials, dear!”

Maeglin sighed and picked up one of the glasses. As he wiped away grime, his mind wandered. Had Turgon found out about the attack? Lianis could have survived; maybe she had gotten back to Gondolin and brought word. Was he sending his soldiers to rescue Maeglin?

A bitter voice in the back of Maeglin’s mind spoke up.  _ You fool. Of course he’s not. Even if he did know, do you really think he would fight Morgoth for his useless, pathetic, strange little nephew? He doesn’t care. None of them do.  _

Maeglin scrubbed furiously at the vial.  _ Well then, I don’t need Turgon. I don’t need any of them. I’m not pathetic, and I can take care of myself. Shut it.  _

He picked up the quill Sauron had left for him and began to neatly label the beakers and glasses. He focused his attention on the task at hand, on each stroke of the pen. Just as he finished the last label, the door opened and Sauron entered again. Maeglin looked over his shoulder and started, for Sauron was not alone.

A smaller figure, clad in a shapeless black tunic walked behind him. Maeglin could see that it was one of the second-born, a young woman. Her pale hair was shaved almost to her scalp, and her eyes were listless and dull. A red scar twisted up her neck from beneath her tunic. Maeglin drew back, clutching at the counter behind him. Sauron wrinkled his brows.

“What’s wrong, Maeglin? You’re so pale.”

Maeglin licked his lips. “I. . .I. . .no. Everything’s fine.”

Sauron smiled. “Good, because I need your clever mind. I am going to be testing a new substance today, and you will help me by taking notes on what I deem necessary.” He sighed. “It’s _ so  _ trying to do it myself sometimes.” He gestured carelessly behind Maeglin. “ If you open that cupboard, you’ll find paper and ink. Now, I must attend to our specimen.”

Maeglin bit his lip and turned away. He felt sick. There was some torment in store for that woman, he was sure of it. 

When he turned back, she was lying on a metal table, her head lolling to one side. Sauron was bent over her, securing her hands in cuffs at her sides. Maeglin clenched his hands on the parchment and suppressed a whimper. Sauron waved a beckoning hand to him.

“Come closer, Maeglin. You’ll need to see to take notes.”

Maeglin moved until he stood at Sauron’s side. He tried not to look into the frightened eyes of the woman on the table. 

Sauron picked up a small glass globe with a needle attached. Dark liquid sloshed inside. 

“This, darling, is my newest creation,” Sauron said, smiling proudly. 

Maeglin drew back. “What is it?”

Sauron tapped a fingernail against the glass. “If it works, which it will, it will be the most powerful slow-acting poison yet seen in Middle Earth.”

Maeglin wrinkled his brows. “Slow-acting?”

Sauron laughed. “Oh, yes. That’s the best part. This poison doesn’t just kill right away; it can take several hours for the receiver to die fully. It could be used when one wanted to, say, obtain information from someone.”

Sauron shot a quick look at Maeglin, smiling slightly. Maeglin looked away, his heart suddenly pounding in his ears. 

“But anyways,” Sauron continued calmly, “time’s a-wasting. We must continue the test.”

Sauron bent over the woman again, turning her head to the side. Her pale eyes met Maeglin’s. They were full of terror, the raw fear of a hunted animal. Maeglin stared, transfixed with horror. 

The woman gave a little cry and Maeglin looked up. The needle was sticking from her neck, the dark liquid inside quickly draining from the globe. Sauron clasped his hands together, his rings clinking. Several minutes passed.

“Any moment now,” Sauron said placidly. “Make sure to make notes on exactly how she reacts.”

As if one cue, the woman screamed. Maeglin clenched his teeth and tried to look away, but his eyes were drawn to her face. Her pupils were dilated, the blue of her eyes almost invisible. She wailed again, her voice cracking, and began to writhe, jerking her hands within the cuffs. Maeglin held back a sob.

“Are you paying attention, child?” Sauron asked. 

“How can you do this to her,” whispered Maeglin. “She’s a living thing. Look at her! She’s in such pain!”

Sauron shrugged. “Well, yes. That’s the purpose of the poison.”

The woman shrieked, twisting and gasping for breath. Foam flecked her lips. Maeglin cringed. 

“Stop it, you monster,” he hissed at Sauron. 

Sauron raised an eyebrow. “Monster? Oh, I don’t think so. It’s for the sake of knowledge. This pathetic creature should feel lucky that she is getting to be a part of something much bigger and more important than her little life. Why does it trouble you so? She’s just a human.”

“Nothing deserves to suffer like this,” Maeglin yelled over the woman’s cries, fury boiling up inside him. “Nothing! Life should be respected, not destroyed!”

Sauron looked down at the woman dispassionately. “Her life would be so short anyways. Does it really matter?”

“Yes,” Maeglin whispered, looking into the woman’s panicked, contorted face. “It matters. How can you be so cruel?”

Sauron shrugged. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I have an antidote.” He pulled a small vial from some pocket of his robes and held it delicately between two fingers. 

The woman was choking, whimpering. Tears ran down her cheeks. Maeglin felt his own eyes prickling. 

“Then give it to her,” he murmured hoarsely. 

Sauron raised his eyebrows. “I could. Maybe. But you would have to do something to make it worth my while.”

Maeglin looked up at him.

Sauron smiled sweetly. “Tell me the location of Gondolin, and I’ll give her the antidote. I swear it.”

Maeglin felt his heart sink. The woman was sobbing frantically now, her mouth open, her eyes rolling. She was suffering, she would die, just like his mother. Maeglin felt a tear trickle down his cheek. He couldn’t tell. He couldn’t. But she was in such pain. Had his mother felt this way in her final moments? 

“Come, little one,” purred Sauron. “There’s no need for this. You can save her. Just give me what I ask.”

Maeglin forced himself to meet those merciless golden eyes. “No,” he said, voice low and firm. “No.”

Sauron bared his teeth, fury warping his beautiful face. His melodious voice was almost a snarl. “Foolish child. You dare defy me?” 

Maeglin stared back at him. “Yes. I do.”

With an effort, Sauron mastered himself. “Well then,” he said, his voice soft but full of venom. “You can stay here and watch her die.”

The woman screamed again. Her hands were clenched in the cuffs, nails digging into her palms. She twisted and looked up at Maeglin, her lips flecked with white, her chest heaving. She was gasping, trying to speak, to call out for help. Blind rage filled Maeglin, and for the moment, he forgot his terror. 

With a strangled yell, he threw the bottle of ink over the table. It burst open, spraying dark ink over Sauron’s robes, his hands, his face. The splashes looked like blood against the scarlet of his sash. 

“You little cretin,” hissed Sauron, thrown off-balance by the unexpected attack. 

Maeglin turned and ran for the door, wrenching it open and staggering out into the corridor. The woman let out another gurgling wail, but Sauron’s cold voice cut through it like a knife.

“Her death is on your head, Maeglin.”

Maeglin covered his ears to block out the screams, and ran. He turned corners at random, stumbled down spiraling staircases, flew past locked doors, until his breath came in gasps and he could run no longer. He collapsed to the floor, leaned against a wall and drew his knees up to his chest. 

Sauron’s words echoed in his mind.  _ Her death is on your head. _

“What should I have done?” Maeglin whispered. “Oh, what should I have done?”

But no answer came, and Maeglin rested his head on his knees and sobbed until he slipped into sleep.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who didn't read this chapter, here's a short summary--Sauron takes Maeglin to help him with an experiment. It turns out that he is testing a pain-inducing poison on a young woman, and wants Maeglin to take notes. Maeglin, not wanting the woman to suffer, begs Sauron to stop the experiment. Sauron tells him that he has an antidote to the poison, but he'll only give it to her if Maeglin reveals the location of Gondolin. Maeglin throws a bottle of ink at Sauron and flees, guilt-ridden.


	11. Alone in the Dark

Maeglin woke in total darkness. The floor was cold and hard beneath him. He could hear nothing but his own breathing. He was shivering. He had dreamed of the woman, of her pale eyes and the way her face had contorted in agony as she stared up at him. 

Maeglin sat up. He had been moved while he slept, that was evident. He stood up, reaching out until his hand was flat against a wall. He walked, trailing his fingers along the stone. Four paces to the corner, another four to the next. There was the door. Maeglin rattled it, but it was locked from the outside. No light filtered in from beyond it. The four paces, and four more and he was back where he had started. 

Maeglin sat down against the wall. Obviously this was some sort of retribution or punishment for his refusal to cooperate. And the ink. Maeglin smiled minutely to himself, remembering Sauron’s look of surprise and fury, but the smile quickly faded, as he thought again of the woman’s screams. 

He waited in the silent darkness. He grew thirsty, then hungry. How much time had passed? Had they all forgotten him? Would anyone come? He paced back and forth, and the room seemed to grow smaller with every turn. He sang to himself, braided strands of his hair, battered his hands against the door until they ached. Still no one came. He slept again, and woke to find a cup of water by his head. So they wouldn’t kill him, not by thirst. 

And the time wore on. Voices whispered in Maeglin’s mind; voices that had been easier to ignore in Gondolin, surrounded by light and air. 

_ You disappoint me _ , said his father.

_ You should have saved me _ , reproached his mother.

_ I’m glad you’re gone _ , said Idril.

Maeglin covered his ears, but heard them still. He thought of his mother often, remembering her face, her voice, the sound of her footsteps. He thought of Idril, brave and beautiful and strong. She was like his mother, or at least how Maeglin imagined her.  _ Perhaps that is why I love her,  _ Maeglin thought.  _ As an ideal, as a phantom of something else. She deserves more. She should be loved for herself.  _

He thought of Tuor, and envy boiled up within him. Turgon loved Tuor, Idril did too, all of Gondolin loved him. He wasn’t even an elf, and still he was counted before Maeglin. Why should he be? Why should Tuor, who didn’t even belong, be valued more than Maeglin? No one spread vicious rumors about Tuor, or left the room when he entered. No one ever questioned him or his right to be there. Maeglin dug his nails into his palms, quivering with jealousy and anger.

He thought too of Eärendil, that golden, joyous child, petted and adored by everyone around him. Maeglin gritted his teeth, and felt his eyes stinging.  _ No one ever loved me like that _ , Maeglin thought bitterly.  _ Not even my mother. Certainly not my father.  _

Sitting there, alone in the darkness, Maeglin felt hatred rising within him. Why should Eärendil grow up surrounded by love when Maeglin had been alone in the shadows? No one would ever speculate that Eärendil might be part orc. No one would whisper behind their hands as soon as he turned away. There would be no doubt of his valor, his loyalty, his intelligence. Maeglin curled his hands into fists.

“I hate him,” he whispered to the darkness. “Oh, how I hate him. Him and his father both. I am wrong to do so, but I have always loved and hated the wrong things. But he has hurt me, oh, how he has hurt me. . .his beauty disgusts me; he is so pure, so wild and free. And I am so. . .scarred.”

Maeglin thought that he might dissolve into the darkness, a shadow himself. 

  
  
  
  



	12. Choice

Hunger gnawed at him, twisting his insides. Water came less and less often. The darkness was complete, impenetrable. Maeglin lay on his side, barely moving. Tears ran down his cheeks and he licked at them, but they did not quench his thirst. 

_ I am going to die here _ , he thought.  _ They have forgotten me, and I am going to die.  _

“No,” he said aloud. “No. I am a rightful prince, the nephew of a king and the son of a princess. I am a lord, and a scholar, and a smith. I am Maeglin, and I refuse to simply fade away!”

His words died away, smothered by the gloom. He folded into himself and fell into a doze, dreams dancing before his eyes. 

~ ~ ~

The lock of the door rattled and clicked, and it swung open. Maeglin sat up with a cry, blinking in the light and shielding his eyes with his hands. An orc guard stood silhouetted in the dim glow, a spear in one hand. 

“Lord Melkor requests your company for dinner,” said the orc, toneless and bored. “Get up.”

Maeglin curled into a ball. He couldn’t go back into that hall, couldn’t face the figure on the throne. He couldn’t do it again. 

The orc banged his spear against the floor. “Come on, elf. Lord Melkor doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Maeglin staggered dizzily to his feet. With an impatient noise, the orc grabbed his arm and towed him roughly out of the room and down the corridor, grumbling all the way. 

They went down spiraling staircases, up sloping corridors, past more guards and closed doorways, until they reached a door that stood ajar. The orc shoved Maeglin through it, as if he was eager to be gone, and shut the door behind him.

Maeglin found himself in the same hall where he had started. The columns soaring into obscurity, the braziers casting a red glow, the two figures at the table; all was the same, except now there were four chairs at the table, though two were empty. 

Maeglin walked slowly forward into the light. Lungorthin sat on one side of the table, looking irked, and Sauron sat on the other, stroking the head of a cat on his lap. His hair was as prettily arranged as always, his robes spotless and pristine. Maeglin shivered when those golden eyes met his, but Sauron smiled and beckoned with one bejeweled finger.

“Come and sit by me, child,” he said sweetly.

Maeglin sat. There was nothing else to do. Lungorthin looked disgusted. 

There was food on the table, and Maeglin stared at it, painfully conscious of the emptiness of his stomach. Sauron stroked his hair and pushed a plate towards him.

“You must be famished, darling. Here, eat.”

Maeglin considered refusing, but hunger won out over pride, and he began to eat. The meat was overcooked. Sauron poured wine into his glass and refilled his own. He ignored Lungorthin, who made a derisive sound in his throat and rolled his eyes.

“I can’t get over just how childish you are, Sauron,” he said. 

“Oh, Lungorthin, you are truly grasping at straws if that is all you can insult me with,” Sauron replied coolly.

The darkness at the end of the hall wavered, and a deep voice made Maeglin hunch down in his seat.

“Not this again,” groaned Morgoth, almost petulantly. “I have been listening to you two squabble  _ all day long _ . Am I to get no respite? It stopped being entertaining about two hundred years ago.”

Lungorthin clenched his jaw. “Apologies, milord.”

Sauron merely smiled and fed the cat a morsel of meat. It stretched, butting its head against Sauron’s chest. 

Maeglin could make out Morgoth’s outline, could see the harsh light of his crown. He was shivering. A few drops of wine splashed from his goblet, dripping onto the table. Sauron looked over and smiled pityingly.

“Lord Melkor,” he purred, “I believe that your current majesty is causing our guest some. . .discomfort. Would you, perhaps, consider shrinking down--temporarily of course?”

Morgoth laughed. “You are bold to ask this of me, my lieutenant. I do not diminish myself often. But I shall, since you seem to desire it.”

Sauron dipped his head. “You honor me, milord.”

The massive shape filling the end of the hall wavered before Maeglin’s eyes, seeming almost to dissolve into the darkness. It solidified into the figure of an elf, though taller than anyone Maeglin had ever encountered, and broad-shouldered. The light of the two silmarils was bright and glaring, burning Maeglin’s eyes. He fought the urge to cower.

Morgoth stepped forwards, into the light of the braziers. He was dressed all in black, and his hair was long and dark, hanging unbound and tangled down to his waist. He wore black leather gloves, but Maeglin could still faintly smell the burned flesh of his hands, and mingling with it, the sweeter scent of corruption. His face was hard and stony, white scars crisscrossing it like a map. But it was his eyes that drew Maeglin’s gaze. They were dark and glittering, almost incandescent, and full of a cruel intelligence that chilled Maeglin to his core. The dark Vala. Everything in the room seemed drawn towards him, as if he exerted control over the fabric of reality itself, over the stones and the mountains, over the sky. Maeglin looked down, focusing on the drops of spilled wine wetting his shaking fingers.

Morgoth walked forwards and seated himself at the head of the table, steepling his gloved hands. Even seated he towered over Sauron and Lungorthin both. 

“Good evening, prince of Gondolin,” he said, his voice smooth and deep. 

“Good evening,” whispered Maeglin.

Morgoth tapped his fingers together. “You are polite, little prince. That is well for you. Courtesy is due to one’s host, is it not?” 

Maeglin licked his lips. “Er. . .yes.”

Morgoth nodded. “And that is why what my lieutenant said confuses me, little prince. He told me something that disturbed me. Do you know what it was?”

Maeglin looked sidelong at Sauron. He was smiling faintly, toying with one of his rings.

“Well?” prompted Morgoth. 

“No,” Maeglin said softly. 

Morgoth rose from his seat and began walking slowly around the table, on the very edge of the circle of light. 

“I’ll tell you, then. He told me that you withheld from him a simple piece of information that he desired. After he healed you, and fed you, and kept you from harm, this feels. . .ungrateful, don’t you think, little prince?”

Maeglin didn’t reply. His heart pounded in his chest, battering against his ribs.

“And not only did you refuse to answer this simple question,” Morgoth continued softly, “you then repaid my lieutenant’s kindness and my hospitality with the type of behavior that can only be called churlish. Did you not?” He raised his eyebrows.

Maeglin swallowed, trying to find his voice, but Morgoth was standing very close now, and speech eluded him.

Morgoth walked until he stood behind Maeglin, his shadow falling over his chair. 

“I do not like ingratitude, Maeglin,” Morgoth said quietly. “I have indulged you this long, but, I assure you, my patience is running out. I will give you one last chance, little prince. Tell me the location of Gondolin and its defenses, and I will reward you. But if you continue this disgusting recalcitrance. . .well, there will be consequences.” He paused, then continued in a voice even softer than before. “Do not think that I forget who your grandfather was, and what he did to me. Perhaps now would be the time to even the score for those wounds, hm, little prince of Gondolin?” 

Maeglin wetted his lips and forced out, “I won’t tell you.” His voice cracked slightly. 

Morgoth leaned on the back of Maeglin’s chair. “Be wise, little prince. Shall I show you what awaits you if you continue this way?”

He lowered his gloved hands until they rested heavily on Maeglin’s shoulders. Maeglin began to shake uncontrollably at that cold touch, but before he could cry out, his vision dissolved.

He found himself standing in a mine shaft. The air was stifling, and the tunnel was lit with a reddish glow. Flames, he realized. He heard cries, and the ringing of hammers. Looking down, he could see elves, hundreds of them, bent over, toiling at their labor. Balrogs, their fiery figures filling the space, cracking whips of flame above the workers. One of the whips came whistling through the air toward Maeglin, he could feel it getting closer, could feel the awful heat of it, he tried to duck, and then the scene faded. 

Morgoth stood beside him now, on the edge of a cliff. They were looking out over the plain of Anfauglith. Morgoth crossed his arms and looked down at Maeglin.

“Horrible, isn’t it? I don’t think you’d live long in the mines, but it would be interesting to find out.”

Maeglin, to his shame, began to cry. He covered his face with his hands, sobbing into them. Icy fear gripped him. He would die. He would never see daylight again. 

Morgoth smiled. “You must miss your home terribly, little prince. Would you like to see it? While we’re here?” Morgoth snapped his fingers. “There you are.”

The vision swirled and solidified into Idril’s house in Gondolin. Maeglin recognized it, though he had only been there once. She was sitting beside Tuor on a window seat, little Eärendil asleep on her lap. They were clearly in the middle of a conversation.

“I understand, my love,” Tuor was saying. “I have my doubts about him as well.”

Idril sighed and stroked her son’s golden curls. “I know he’s my cousin, but he’s just so. . .strange. I mean, the way he looks at me sometimes, it makes my skin crawl.”

Tuor touched her hand. “He can’t hurt you, Idril.”

Idril looked down. “I know, but all the same, I’m glad he’s gone. My father says that he’s just young and has had a hard go of it, but still. The way his father ensorcelled his mother. . .a child born of such a union just can’t be right.”

Tuor leaned forwards and kissed her cheek. “Don’t fret, dearest. Maeglin can do nothing to you.”

Maeglin felt his face fall. No. No. This was wrong. They couldn’t think that about him. He would never hurt Idril. As the room wavered and disappeared, their words echoed back to him.

_ Just can’t be right. _

_ Makes my skin crawl. _

_ I have my doubts. _

_ Just so strange.  _

Maeglin was back on the cliff, beside Morgoth. 

“Well? Was it nice to be home, little prince?” Morgoth asked, lips twisted in a smile.

“I don’t believe it,” Maeglin hissed. 

Morgoth rested a hand on Maeglin’s shoulder. “Don’t you, though? When have they ever cared for you, Maeglin? When have they ever treated you with respect? Do you really think that they would search for you if you never came back?”

Maeglin looked away. Tears pricked at his eyes. Morgoth was simply saying what Maeglin had been hearing in his mind forever. They didn’t care. Of course they didn’t. Why would they?

Morgoth snorted. “No answer? I thought so. Make your choice, little prince.”

Maeglin clenched his teeth. Tears dripped down his cheeks and fell onto the rocks at his feet. 

“Fine,” he whispered bitterly, the wind whipping his hair over his face. “What do you want to know?” 

  
  



	13. Branded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a tad bit of violence in this chapter, but it's not too graphic. Just thought I'd mention it.

After that, it was all too easy to speak of the gates and the guards, the engines of war and the archers, of the hill and the mountains and the passages leading out and in. With a wild, reckless abandon, Maeglin let the words flow from his lips. 

_ They expect this of me _ , Maeglin thought wretchedly.  _ The people of Gondolin look at me and see a traitor, so a traitor is what they will get.  _

He watched the smile on Sauron’s face growing as he spoke, could feel Morgoth’s hungry presence behind his chair. Even Lungorthin’s eyes gleamed with malice.

“Well, little prince,” said Morgoth, resting his elbows on the back of Maeglin’s chair. “You have served us well, and the Master of Fate rewards faithfulness. I offer you Gondolin, for your own, after it falls.” He rested a hand on Maeglin’s shoulder. “They will respect you then, my prince,” he continued softly. “No one will ever doubt your strength again.”

Maeglin couldn’t speak. He wanted to push Morgoth’s touch away, but he was frozen, silent and still as a statue.

“And not only that, Maeglin. Oh no,” Morgoth crooned. “I offer you Idril, of whom you are so fond. Do you wish vengeance on Tuor? You shall have that as well.” His grip tightened, his voice growing steely, cold. “Remember, Maeglin, they despise you, doubt you, have never trusted you. You owe them  _ nothing _ .”

“I. . .I. . .” Maeglin trailed off. He was revolted. Did Morgoth truly think him so base, so corrupted that he would do just as his father had, and compel Idril to care for him by force? 

_ I would never _ , Maeglin thought.  _ I would see her dead before I enslaved her to my will.  _

Outwardly, Maeglin nodded. He would play the broken servant, the weak-willed child, if it appeased Morgoth enough to let him go. Then he would be out of their clutches and free to do as he liked. Let Gondolin burn without him, he would disappear into the forests and the mountains and leave them to their fate. They had never wanted him anyways. He belonged alone. 

Morgoth smiled, walking back to his chair. “Mairon,” he said carelessly, waving a hand at Sauron, “Carry out your little plan. Lungorthin, come with me.”

Lungorthin followed Morgoth into the darkness, leaving Sauron and Maeglin alone. Sauron smiled, and reached out to caress Maeglin’s face. 

“Oh, my dear, sweet child. You made the right choice.”

Maeglin didn’t reply. 

Sauron continued stroking his cheek. “But it is the nature of your kind to have little qualms and fears, is it not? Sometimes we need. . .  _ reminders _ of who we are, and the choices we’ve made. And who we belong to,” he added coolly, almost as an afterthought. 

Maeglin felt his hands trembling. There was something in store, he could tell, some new torment. 

Sauron causally lowered his hand towards the brazier beside him, and closed his fingers around something within it.

“So, little one, you mustn’t make a fuss over this. I detest tears and pleading and all those  _ messy _ things you elves revel in.”

With lightning quickness, Sauron grasped Maeglin’s shoulder and jerked him forwards. Maeglin cried out, struggling to free himself, but Sauron bore him downwards until his cheek was pressed against the table. 

“Be still, darling,” Sauron murmured sweetly. 

He raised his other hand. Something glowed white hot within it, its light bathing the two figures in an eerie glow. Sauron pressed the object to Maeglin’s shoulder, and Maeglin’s world narrowed to white-hot, searing agony. 

He could smell his flesh burning. He screamed, trying to twist away, but Sauron held him fast, pinning him down with a vice-like grip. Time seemed to slow, each second an age of pain. Maeglin could taste blood. He must have bitten his lip, he realized dimly, and then the black mist gathering at the edge of his vision flooded his sight, and bore him down with it into a shadowy sea. 

~ ~ ~

When he woke, he was lying on a bed. His shoulder ached dully. Dried blood crusted his mouth. Maeglin pushed his hair out of his eyes and raised his head. The room was bare, though brightly lit, unusual in Angband’s darkness. 

Hearing the door open, Maeglin dropped his head to the pillow, closing his eyes. He heard footsteps cross the room until they stopped beside his head.

“I know you’re awake, dear,” said Sauron. “It’s no use pretending.”

Maeglin reluctantly opened his eyes. Sauron smiled and brushed a strand of hair off his forehead.

“Your shoulder doesn’t hurt too badly, does it?”

“No,” Maeglin replied, sitting up with a wince. “It’s fine.”

Sauron nodded, satisfied. “I thought it would be. I’m told I am quite the doctor. Perhaps healing is my true calling in life.” He sat down on the bed and rested his chin on his hands, musing. Then he looked at Maeglin and shook his head. “Hm. No. I don’t think so. But anyways,” He clapped his hands. “You will go back to Gondolin soon. We deem that it is best for you to work from within the city, so as not to arouse suspicion. We will equip you as you were when you arrived here.”

“Will you give me a horse?” Maeglin asked numbly. “It’s a long journey.”

Sauron laughed. “Oh, no, little one. Wouldn’t want to run the risk of one of those nasty little moral bouts your kind are so prone to and have you. . .get cold feet, shall we say. I myself will transport you back to Gondolin when the time comes.”

Maeglin’s heart sank. There was to be no escape from this. How could he have thought himself strong enough to withstand the lords of darkness? Of course they had seen what he planned, of course they would know. Maeglin slumped, leaning his head on his knees. 

Sauron made a conciliatory sound. “It’s not that we don’t trust you, dear. We just believe in precautions.”

Sauron patted Maeglin’s hand and swept out the door. Maeglin sat still, listening to his heartbeat. He touched the sheets on the bed, looked up at the ceiling. There was a torch bracket high up in the wall. Would it hold his weight? Of course, it wouldn’t matter once. . .Maeglin shuddered, bile rising in his throat. No, he couldn’t do it. And there  _ was _ a part of him that wanted to see Gondolin in ruins. It was a prison masquerading as a paradise, a gilded cage meant to suffocate him. He suddenly hated it, hated them all for their false promises of freedom and joy. They had given him only sorrow and pain. 

He swung his feet down to the cold floor and stood. He would go back, and play Morgoth’s game to its end.

  
  



	14. Illusions

Afterwards, Maeglin could never be sure how long he stayed in Angband. Time passed strangely there, deep under the earth. He stayed in Sauron’s wing of the fortress, and saw no one but the occasional orc guard and Sauron himself. 

The days blended together. He helped Sauron sometimes, writing out labels or taking notes on his various experiments. He learned to close his ears to the screams, to harden his heart and sleep lightly so the dreams wouldn’t come. Maeglin drew maps of Gondolin for him, pointing out entryways and the locations of guards. It made him feel sick, but there was a strange pleasure in it too; to find the weak spots in something impenetrable. 

Maeglin’s shoulder still throbbed dully. One day he had looked in one of Sauron’s mirrors, twisting his head to see his back. An eye stared back at him, red and raw against his pale skin. He looked away, disgusted with himself.

And yet he grew to crave Sauron’s affection. At least there was one person who seemed to appreciate his skills. And Angband was so cold. He treasured warmth, even the warmth of an enemy. Maeglin loathed himself for accepting Sauron’s caresses and praise.  _ You are a prince _ , he chided himself.  _ You don’t need him. You don’t need anyone. He’d torture you to death if he had his way! _

But the truth was still there, and Maeglin felt it like another brand; burning him from the inside out. 

~ ~ ~

“So,” said Sauron, gracefully disposing himself on the edge of Maeglin’s bed one morning. “You are going back to Gondolin today. You will tell Turgon that on the way back, you were attacked by orcs and your companions were killed or lost, whichever you prefer. You will say nothing to him or anyone else of your time here.”

Maeglin bit his lip. He hadn’t thought about facing his uncle.

“Do you understand, little one?”

“Yes,” Maeglin murmured.

Sauron smiled, showing his sharply pointed teeth. “Good. Now, I’ll let you dress.” He set a bundle down on the mattress, patted Maeglin’s head, and sailed out of the room. 

Maeglin unfolded the clothes. There was a black tunic, and a black surcoat embroidered with silver threads. There were even boots of black leather. He ran his fingers over the fine cloth of the robes. It seemed strange now, to put it on, to feel the softness of silk and velvet on his skin, to hide the scars.

He pulled the boots on last, wondering what had happened to the pair Turgon had given him.  _ No _ , Maeglin thought bitterly.  _ He didn’t give those to me. He gave them to his loyal nephew, to his almost-son. Not to a traitor with a brand on his skin. _

Maeglin opened the door and stepped into the corridor. Sauron had seated himself on a stone bench and appeared to read, but he looked up with a smile when Maeglin stood before him. He reached up and fingered Maeglin’s sleeve.

“Such a pretty child,” he said, as if Maeglin couldn’t hear him. “So very delicate.” Sauron stroked Maeglin’s fingers. A tingle of fear and pleasure went through Maeglin’s body. 

Sauron stood and looked down at him, tilting his chin up with one hand. “You know, sweet one, you could smile more.”

_ But how can I smile when my heart aches so?  _

Maeglin looked away. “I’ll try,” he softly replied.

Sauron smiled and patted his cheek. “Do that. Gaiety can hide a multitude of ills, you know. Now, we should be off. Take my hands and don’t let go.”

Maeglin did. He could feel Sauron’s rings pressed against his palms. They were warm to the touch. He shivered all the same. 

Sauron closed his eyes and began to hum something, chanting under his breath. The stone walls started to dissolve before Maeglin’s eyes, the floor didn’t feel quite solid anymore, and then they were sucked into cold, rushing darkness. Maeglin clung to Sauron’s hands and squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the shadows swirl about him, as if they wanted to pull him down into their depths. Maybe they could recognize one of their own.

~ ~ ~

The world solidified, the rushing darkness dissipating. Maeglin staggered, blinking in the light. He stood beside Sauron on a mountaintop, high above Gondolin. It looked like a toy beneath them, a plaything for giants. The wind whipped Maeglin’s hair and ruffled Sauron’s robes. 

“The eagles will see us,” Maeglin said, scanning the sky. 

Sauron waved a dismissive hand. “They will not. I cast a minor illusion over us. It will last for a few moments. Now, need I remind you of the conditions of your freedom?”

“No,” Maeglin whispered. “You need not. I know.”

Sauron rested a hand on his shoulder. “Yes, I’m sure you do.” His grip tightened, his nails digging into Maeglin’s flesh, but his voice as sweet as ever. “See that you don’t forget, darling. It would be a shame to have to destroy you now,” he purred in Maeglin’s ear. 

Maeglin flinched as a spike of pain shot through his burned shoulder. 

“No. I will not forget,” he choked out. 

Sauron stroked his back. “Wonderful.” He turned Maeglin’s face towards Gondolin. “Look out, little prince,” he said. “Soon it will all be yours. They will grovel at your feet. No one will ever disregard you again. All you have to do is smile and bide your time. Are you not happy with your decision?”

Maeglin laughed hoarsely. “I don’t have a choice, do I? There never was a decision for me to make.”

Sauron smiled down at him, his face cold and a ruthless light in his eyes. “How droll. That you ever thought there was.”

  
  



	15. Returning

Maeglin turned his face away, letting the cold wind sting his cheeks. When he turned back, Sauron nodded once to him, still smiling.

“Goodbye, my prince. Do not forget what you are.” 

With a swirl of black silk, Sauron dissolved into the air, leaving no trace of his presence, not even a footprint. Maeglin gasped as the brand on his shoulder burned again, searing his skin. He clenched his teeth and walked to the edge of the cliff, looking down at the rocky slope below. It was a long drop, would be a hard fall. A fall to kill. He stepped back with a little cry. No. He couldn’t do it. 

So he began the long walk down the mountainside, step by silent step as the tears coursed down his face and the wind tangled his hair into knots. 

~ ~ ~

He saw three guards approaching on horseback just as he began the long trek across the grassy plain. Their hoofbeats pounded, shaking the ground. Maeglin halted, waiting. 

“Ho, there!” yelled the lead horseman. “State your business.”

Maeglin held up his hands. “Do you not recognize me, gentleman? Has it been so long that you have forgotten my face?”

The soldiers drew up, their horses prancing around Maeglin. 

“Lord Maeglin!” exclaimed the officer who had yelled, surprise showing in every line of his face. “I did not realize it was you. You see. . .we gave you up for lost months ago, when your horse came back riderless. By what miraculous chance do you come here?”

Maeglin forced a smile and folded his hands behind his back, twisting his fingers together to stop the trembling. 

“It is truly a wild tale, officers, and I would that my uncle, the high king, would hear it first.”

The guard dipped his head in acknowledgement, his plume bobbing. “Of course, milord. My apologies. Would you take my horse?”

Maeglin bowed his head. “Thank you.”

The officer dismounted and offered the reins to Maeglin, who patted the horse’s warm, tawny neck and swung himself into the saddle. The displaced guard mounted behind one of his companions, and they were off again, cantering across the greensward towards Gondolin.

_ And so it begins _ , thought Maeglin.  _ My great charade. My smiling treachery.  _

The brand on his shoulder burned. It felt as if the guards would surely see it glowing through his robes, a dreadful stamp of what he had become.

Shame was a bitter draught.

~ ~ ~

They clattered through the gates and into a paved courtyard. Passerby and guards alike gaped at Maeglin, eyes wide. He smiled and nodded at them, a picture of tranquility. One of the soldiers dismounted and ran off towards the king’s buildings. Maeglin cordially thanked the officer, handed back the reins of his mount, and strode off in search of his uncle. No sense delaying the inevitable, after all. 

_ Better get it over with _ , he thought.

As he mounted the marble steps, feeling the spray from the fountain cool his skin, the doors flew open, and Turgon, white robes billowing, shooed away a gaggle of advisors and surged towards Maeglin, his arms outstretched.

Before he could even bow, Maeglin was enveloped in a cloud of sweet-smelling silk. Turgon pulled him close, his arms tight around Maeglin’s shoulders.

“Oh, Maeglin, you’ve come back. You’ve come back to me. Oh, praise Ilúvatar!”

Maeglin bit his lip. His heart ached.  _ Serpent, scoundrel, deceiver _ , Maeglin internally berated himself. He wished he could claw his way out of his skin, could become someone else. 

Turgon pulled back, looking down at Maeglin with tear-filled eyes. 

“Lómion, I thought. . .oh, I thought. . .when your horse came back. . .” Turgon trailed off, clutching Maeglin’s hands in his. 

Maeglin swallowed hard. “Uncle, I’m fine. It’s all right.” He licked his lips. Now was the time, he knew it. The time when the true deception would be spun. The brand on his shoulder twinged. Maeglin flinched and looked up at his uncle. “We were attacked by an orc troop on the way. I managed to escape. I made it to the Naugrim on foot.”

Turgon wrinkled his brows. “They did not give you a horse for the return journey?”

Maeglin attempted a smile. “They gave me some. . .magical assistance.”

Turgon looked concerned as he took Maeglin’s arm and led him inside the building. “Maeglin, dear child, you seem. . .different. Are you all right? Were you hurt?”

Maeglin shook his head quickly. “Of course not, Uncle. I’m perfectly fine. Just tired, that’s all.”

Turgon nodded. “Oh, of course. You should rest.” All of a sudden, his expression turned severe. “Maeglin, I need you to make me a promise.”

Maeglin’s breath caught in his throat. Did Turgon somehow know? Could Maeglin be free?

“Swear to me that you won’t leave Gondolin again.” Turgon said seriously. “To think what could have happened. . .Maeglin, you could have fallen into Morgoth’s clutches.” He shook his head. “If I lost you too. . .I don’t know what I’d do. Please, Maeglin. Promise me.”

Maeglin bowed his head. “Yes, milord,” he whispered. “I swear it.”

Turgon touched his arm. “Thank you, nephew. Now, go and rest. You look exhausted.”

Maeglin nodded, looking at his feet. “Yes, uncle. I will.”

Turgon began to walk away, but Maeglin, almost against his will, found himself calling out to his uncle.

“Uncle!”

Turgon looked over his shoulder. “Yes, Maeglin? What is it?”

Maeglin could feel the tears gathering behind his eyes. He had to say something. He had to. “Uncle, I. . .I’m just. . .I’m sorry,” he said hopelessly.

Turgon tilted his head. “Why, nephew? You’ve done nothing wrong. Are you sure you’re all right, Maeglin?”

_ Oh, Uncle, if only you knew. _

Maeglin shrugged and smiled ruefully. “I suppose I’m just tired.”

Turgon smiled gently. “Go and rest, child.”

Maeglin dipped his head and turned away, but Turgon’s voice stopped him.

“Maeglin, you do know that I love you, don’t you?”

Maeglin stiffened, squeezing his eyes shut. He desperately wanted to open his mouth and speak, to tell Turgon what he’d done and beg for forgiveness. But the brand on his shoulder throbbed again, and he clenched his teeth to hold in a hiss of pain.

“I love you too, Uncle,” he murmured.  _ And I’m sorry to repay your kindness like this _ , he added in his head.

“Well. . .” Turgon laughed slightly. “I have to get back to my council. Go get some sleep, Maeglin, king’s orders.”

Maeglin bowed to his uncle. “I will.”

He padded out of the room, listening to the sound of Turgon’s footsteps cross the floor and fade to nothing. He gave a deep sigh and set out towards his own rooms. 

_ Will you still love me, Uncle, when your city burns and it is my fault? Will you still be happy then, that I came back? Will you, Uncle? Or will you condemn me, like everyone else? It’s what I deserve, after all. Oh, why did it have to come to this?  _

  
  



	16. Lightning Strike

Maeglin’s fingers had barely brushed the cool metal of his door handle when he heard footsteps approaching, pattering quickly on the stone floor. He looked up, just in time to see Glorfindel come charging around the corner with characteristic enthusiasm and slide to a stop a few feet away from Maeglin, a bright smile on his face.

“I heard from the guards that you’d come back, titsë, but I had to see for myself,” he said breathlessly, pulling Maeglin into a tight embrace. “I’ve missed you so  _ much _ , Maeglin.”

Maeglin worked hard to keep his voice even, calm. “And I you, Glorfindel,” he replied, returning the hug. 

Glorfindel rocked him back and forth for a few moments without speaking. Maeglin focused on taking deep breaths and resisting the urge to bat Glorfindel’s hands away. 

Glorfindel finally let Maeglin go and looked down at him with an interested expression. “You know, titsë, you look. . .different.”

Maeglin managed a smile. “It must be all my new knowledge from the Naugrim. Maybe it made me taller.”

Glorfindel smiled, but shook his head. “No, Lómion. It’s not that. You just. . .you’re smiling more than you used to.”

Maeglin felt his heart sink, but he kept his face a mask of cheerful calm. “Really? The climate must have agreed with me.”

Glorfindel laughed. “Surely.” His expression turned concerned, and he ran his thumb gently under Maeglin’s eye. Maeglin barely kept himself from flinching away from the touch, soft as it was. It was too much like Sauron’s petting.

“You do look tired, though,” observed Glorfindel. “You should go and rest. But remember, you’re going to have to tell me all about your travels tomorrow! I can’t wait to hear about all the things you did.”

Maeglin kept his smile anchored firmly on his face. “It won’t be very interesting to you, I’m afraid. Not much happened.”

Glorfindel shrugged. “But I still must know! I’ll pester you until you tell me, titsë. This is only a temporary reprieve. Now, I won’t detain you any longer.”

To Maeglin’s discomfort, Glorfindel wrapped his arms around him again, nearly lifting Maeglin off of his feet. 

“I’m so happy you’re safe and well, Maeglin,” he murmured. “I know you’re strong and capable, but. . .well, I worried about you.”

“Well, I’m perfectly fine, so you didn’t need to,” Maeglin replied, a bit more brusquely than he meant to. Glorfindel wrinkled his brows.

“Of course I needed to, titsë. I care about you.”

Maeglin looked away. “Thanks, Glorfindel,” he said softly.

Glorfindel rubbed his shoulder affectionately. “Get some rest, Maeglin. I’ll bring you some food.”

“Thank you,” Maeglin said again, as Glorfindel stepped back.

Glorfindel grinned. “It’s what friends are for.”

Maeglin turned away and pushed open the door to his room. It was just as he’d left it. He sat down on his bed and lowered his head into his hands.

_ Some friend I am. Oh, I should have let Sauron kill me and throw my soul to his wolves. It couldn’t have been more painful than destroying it myself.  _

Maeglin flopped back onto his pillows, staring up at the shadowed ceiling, and cried silently, shaking with sobs, until everything blurred to indistinguishable shadows against a backdrop of despair.

~ ~ ~

Maeglin blinked awake to find that it was early evening. The sky outside his window was lavender, the mountains painted pink by the setting sun. He sat up with a groan, mussing his hair. Someone had lit a taper on the table beside him, and a tray of food sat alongside it. Maeglin sighed. It must have been Glorfindel.

Maeglin contemplated the food. He rather thought that he should leave it, should punish his body for his spirit’s transgressions. Traitors didn’t deserve friends who brought them meals. 

But in the end, hunger won out, and Maeglin began to eat. Everything tasted like ashes on his tongue. He wondered if this was some trick of Morgoth’s, or if it was just his own guilt. 

_ Liar. _

_ Dissembler. _

_ Deceiver. _

_ Traitor. _

Maeglin paced back and forth across his room, like a caged animal. The shadows lengthened, but it was nothing compared to Angband’s darkness. He clenched and unclenched his hands, relishing the pain of his fingernails digging into his palms. His shoulder twinged, and, wincing, he came to a stop.

Catching sight of himself in the long mirror, Maeglin faced his own reflection. He looked gaunt, his muscles tight and tense. There were eggshell-blue smudges under his eyes, the pale skin bruised from sleepless nights. He seemed even smaller than usual, a fragile, broken thing. His dark eyes swam with tears, his shoulders slumped.

Maeglin clenched his fists again and looked away with a grimace. Sickening, painful loathing rose in his breast. He  _ hated _ himself, hated what he had become. 

And then, clear as summer lightning, an idea sprang fully-formed into his mind. He couldn’t warn Turgon, Morgoth’s spells prevented it, he was sure, but there was something he  _ could  _ do. 

He looked up, staring into his own eyes, and drew himself up to his full (if not impressive) height. A slow, sorrowful smile spread across his face. Gondolin might fall in flames, but not everyone had to burn with it. It was up to him now, to prove that he wasn’t just a beaten thrall of Morgoth.

But it would cost him, he knew. It would cost him greatly. Was he willing to destroy what he most cherished for people who despised him? 

“Yes,” Maeglin answered himself. “I am. For once in my life, I am going to do the right thing. I am not a shadow yet.”

Without a backward glance, Maeglin opened the door and stepped out into the silent corridor. He was ready, but he had one other thing to do first. 

  
  



	17. Dreams of Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait for this chapter. I had a busy week. :)   
> Thanks for bearing with me!

Maeglin moved silently through back corridors and deserted passages. He avoided the guards, slipped from shadow to shadow as soundlessly as a spirit. He knew his route well; he had taken it many times before. 

After waiting for two guards to pass by, Maeglin pushed open a door and slipped out into the cool night air. He strode down a white stone path, faintly gleaming in the moonlight. He saw no one, and his passage went unnoticed. 

He darted across a courtyard and entered a small garden. A fountain gurgled pleasantly, and flowers and herbs exhaled fragrance into the air. Moonflower, mint, evening primrose. Maeglin inhaled deeply, drinking in the delicious scents. He plucked a sprig of lavender from a bush and rubbed it between his fingers as he walked towards the center of the garden, where a marble statue shone in the starlight.

“Hello, Ammë,” Maeglin said softly, kneeling down at the base of the statue and looking up into its face.

It was a woman on a horse, a bow and quiver slung over her back. She was smiling brightly, her hair flying out in an invisible wind. One hand rested gently on the neck of her mount, the other was outstretched towards the ground, as if she would help Maeglin to rise. A circlet of silver glimmered on her forehead. She looked proud, brave, strong, kind. Below her, engraved first in stately Quenya and then in Sindarin was:  _ Aredhel Írissë, Ar-Feiniel.  _

Maeglin ran his fingers over the letters he had touched so many times. The many tears he had shed had left no marks on the smooth stone. 

Candles, smelling of beeswax, rested at the base of the statue, beside a flint. With a sad smile, Maeglin picked one up and placed it in a holder, striking the flint beside it. A spark leapt to the wick, and the taper blazed to life, giving the cold stone a glow, almost of life. Almost, but not quite. Maeglin looked into his mother’s forever-smiling face, drinking it in.

“Ammë,” he whispered, placing his hand in her lowered one. “Ammë, I am sorry. For giving in. For not being enough. For all the things I did, and all the things I should have done. But I am going to make things right, if I can. Or at least fix something. I want to be worthy of being your son.” He swallowed hard. “Ammë, please, lend me your strength tonight. Be with me. I need you, Ammë. I am afraid that I do not have the will to do what I must.”

The candlelight flickered across Aredhel’s motionless face, making it glow like a star fallen to earth. 

Clutching his mother’s fingers as tightly as he could, Maeglin closed his eyes and breathed deeply, just as his mother had taught him. He had never been very good at dream magic, but that didn’t matter. He knew he had to try. 

Maeglin ignored the pain in his shoulder and the hard stone he knelt upon. He delved into himself, pushing downwards into darkness. He hadn’t entered the dreamy, in-between realms in such a very long time, but he was going to get in if it was the last thing he ever did. And it could be. Dream magic was fluid and dangerous.

He clenched his mother’s hand and repeated the words she had whispered in his ear, so long ago. 

_ Hröa, leave me; fëa, guide me; dark, surround me; dreams abide me. Hröa, leave me; fëa, guide me; dark, surround me; dreams abide me.  _

With a rush of joy, Maeglin felt himself slipping away, into the shadowy vision-lands of night. He could do this. He would find her. He had to, and if it killed him. . .well, at least he would die doing something good.

~ ~ ~

Maeglin walked through swirling grey mist, feeling through the dream-threads with his mind. Colorful images--the dreams of the people of Gondolin--flitted before his eyes, disappearing into the fog as quickly as they surfaced. He batted them away. He was on a mission. He had to find her. 

Maeglin concentrated, searching for his cousin’s thread. Where  _ was _ she? If she was awake. . .no, she couldn’t be. He would find her.

Whispering voices filled Maeglin’s ears, distracting him, pulling at him, calling him with voices of the past. Covering his ears didn’t block them out.

And then he felt it. A warm strand of gold, shimmering, gentle. Maeglin smilied and seized it, letting it tug him along through the mist. He could do this. 

The fog solidified, forming a doorway. Maeglin rested his hand on the glowing handle, and dimly felt a pain in his shoulder, yanking him back to his body, kneeling on the stones.

“No,” Maeglin hissed. “No. I’m not listening, Sauron. I’m not your creature, and I never will be.”

With a gasp and a wrench, Maeglin jerked the door open and stumbled through it, and into Idril’s dreams. 

He looked around, finding himself in a garden at the edge of a precipice. The wind smelled of orange blossoms and rosemary. The sky was a pristine blue. Maeglin swallowed a short laugh. Of course Idril’s dreams would be like this. 

He walked through the garden, ignoring the giant swan that benignly investigated his feet and the laughing, golden-haired boy that ran across his path. He followed the strand of gold, feeling for its warmth and light, and let it lead him through the vibrant flowers.

Ahead of him, he saw a figure sitting on the grass, robed all in white. Golden hair rippled in the breeze. Maeglin walked slowly up to it, breathing deeply. He could do this. He had to do this.

He only hesitated for a moment before reaching down and tapping the white-clad shoulder. 

Idril turned her face towards him with the easy friendliness felt for people in dreams. Maeglin stared into her blue eyes and gently pulled her to her feet.

Arm in arm, they strolled through the garden, making for the edge of the cliff. They talked pleasantly of nothing. Maeglin was sure Idril had no idea who he was. She would never be so light and friendly in his company. A little pinch of sorrow squeezed Maeglin’s heart.

They stood at the edge of the precipice, looking out over indistinct, shimmering clouds. Maeglin let his hand drop from Idril’s arm. This would be the hardest part, he knew.

Maeglin closed his eyes and concentrated, seizing the fibers of Idril’s dreams with his mind and unknotting them, twisting them into his own image, coiling the peaceful garden into something monstrous and desolate. 

And the air changed. Maeglin opened his eyes to find himself standing beside Idril on the white ramparts of Gondolin, now tinged red and orange by flames. Dark armies were massed below the hillsides, clambering towards the gates. The wind smelled of ashes and smoke. People screamed in the streets below.

Maeglin stepped until he was facing Idril, his back to the flames. Her face was full of fear and horror. Maeglin’s heart ached for her, but he hardened it, locked the pain away. He had to do this. He was doing the right thing. He took a deep breath, and began to speak.

“Idril. Cousin. Listen to me. Please.” He forced himself to hold her gaze. “This is not just a nightmare. This is the future, Idril. This is what is going to happen. You need to be ready for it when it comes.”

Idril’s brows drew together. “I don’t understand. Speak plainly.”

Maeglin gripped her shoulders. “Morgoth is coming, Idril. He’s coming because. . .because I gave in. I was weak, and angry, and so, so foolish.” He held back a sob. “Please believe me, Idril. I can’t let you die.”

Fury mixed with the fear in Idril’s eyes. Maeglin knew she recognized him now. When she spoke, her voice was low and flinty.

“You betrayed my father after all he has done for you. You are willing to let innocent people die because of your cowardice.” Her face twisted. “I  _ despise _ you,” she hissed.

Tears spilled from Maeglin’s eyes. “Idril, I know. You should. I deserve it. But please, please listen to me. You  _ must _ find a way to escape. You have to. . .to  _ live _ , Idril.”

Idril looked away, down into the flames behind her. “Maeglin, I can’t fathom why you would do this. I really can’t. Do you honestly believe that I would be so base as to flee and leave my father to perish?!” She glared at him. “Not everyone is as selfish as you are, cousin.”

Maeglin winced and said nothing. Idril clenched her fists. 

“I hate you, Maeglin. I thought you were better than this.”

Maeglin smiled ruefully. “No, Idril. You didn’t.”

Idril swallowed hard, eyes glistening with tears of anger and sorrow, and spat, “Why are you telling me this? Why not let me die? Or, even better, follow in your father’s footsteps and compel me to care for you?”

Maeglin grimaced. “Please don’t,” he whispered. “I want you to live, Idril. I want to do one good thing. Idril, I’m so sorry. For all of it.”

Idril’s face was set, tears running down her pale cheeks. “Your father’s spear should have found its proper mark,” she said icily. 

Maeglin clenched his teeth. “Do you think I disagree?”

Idril looked back again, down at the raging flames. Then, with a desperate, guttural cry, she reached forwards and shoved Maeglin with all her strength.

He slipped, arms pinwheeling helplessly, and felt himself falling into emptiness. He plunged backwards, weightless, and the hungry flames hissed and crackled beneath him, as if they were eager to swallow him whole. 

  
  



	18. Sunrise

When Maeglin came back to himself, he was still clutching his mother’s hand, warmed by his own until it felt almost like flesh. His shoulder burned, an aching, persistent pain. His knees were numb from the hard stone. His breath came in sharp heaves, as if he had been running. 

Blinking, Maeglin looked up into his mother’s face, frozen in that joyous smile. Behind her, he could see the stars beginning to fade, to be swallowed by the fleeing darkness of night. Dawn was coming. He had to go. 

With an effort, Maeglin slowly got to his feet and unclenched his deadened fingers. The candle he had lit was burning low, wax puddling around its base. He bent and scraped it clean with his fingernails, but left the flame, to flicker in the dying darkness like a lost star. 

He turned to leave, but, with a melancholy sigh, returned to his post at his mother’s feet and set down, crossing his legs beneath him. He watched the candle flame as it flared and guttered in the cool breeze of coming morning.

“Are you proud of me, Ammë?” Maeglin softly asked the unmoving statue. “Did I do the right thing? Ah, I think so. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

He looked down at his hands, so pale against the black of his robe and sighed again. 

“But I suppose I deserve what I’ve brought upon myself.”

Aredhel only smiled, her marble face serene and still. 

Maeglin gave a bitter laugh. “Mandos must be chortling. It’s so perfect, Turgon betrayed by his own nephew, his shining city destroyed from within. Like something out of legend. ‘Tears unnumbered ye shall shed.’ I wonder how many of those are my tears. Or how many of those tears I’ve caused.”

Maeglin bent until his head rested against the cool stone of the pedestal. 

“Oh, Ammë,” he whispered hoarsely. “What have I done? Was I always on this path? Was I always being drawn inexorably onwards, pulled towards this dreadful thing by some string of fate? Did I take a wrong turn somewhere? Or did I weave this doom myself?”

A tear trickled on to the stone and dripped downwards. It was followed by another, and another, and another, until the stone was wet and Maeglin’s lips tasted like salt.

Slowly, as if he carried a great weight, Maeglin sat up again and dragged his sleeve across his eyes. The dawn sky tinged his mother’s face pink, made the circlet on her head glow golden. She looked almost ethereal, like something from another world.

Maeglin rose for the second time, and, stretching out a hand that trembled only slightly, plucked a purple hyacinth from among the myriad of flowers, and laid it beside the still-burning candle. A single tear shimmered on its petals. 

Maeglin looked up into his mother’s face, and smiled slightly, the salt of his tears still on his lips.

“Goodbye, Ammë,” Maeglin whispered. “I will see you soon. Wait for me.”

The stars were barely visible as Maeglin turned and left the quiet garden, but the candle at Aredhel’s feet still shone like a fallen star long after Maeglin’s soft footfalls had faded away. 

And so the sun rose.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Debts of Gratitude  
> I owe a huge thank you to everyone who commented, left kudos, or even just read this story. You lovely people make writing so rewarding for me, and all your support makes my heart sing. I really hope you enjoyed this piece. I also must give a MASSIVE thank-you and a big hug to my friend and first reader, whose insight, encouragement, and humor keep me writing even when the going gets tough. 
> 
> About the Story  
> I have always wanted to delve deeply into the character of Maeglin, because I, for one, find his story a heart-wrenching one. In The Silmarillion, he's regarded as brave, perceptive, and intelligent. He is an exceedingly loyal son and nephew (until, well, you know). So what went wrong? I refuse to just put it down to ambition, weakness, or spurned love. Yes, Maeglin does a terrible thing, but he is also a traumatized adolescent up against an enemy much, much stronger than himself, an enemy who manipulates his every weakness, and distorts his already precarious sense of self to a degree where he completely shatters and is driven to betray everyone he cares about. I wanted to explore how he could have gotten there, as well as the aftereffects of his time in Angband on his internal state, which is what drove me to write this story. Thank you for sharing it with me.


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